STAGE-STRUCK; 


OR, 


She  Wotild  be  an  Opera-Singer. 


BY 

/^%       BLANCHE   ROOSEVELT/'^ 

AUTHOB  OF  "marked  'in  HA8TB,"»  "lONGFELLOw'S  BOMB  LIPB,"  «TC. 


'  Oh  quanto  h.  corto  '1  dire  e  como  fioco 
Al  mio  concetto  !  e  questo,  a  quel  ch'  io  vidi, 
E  tanto  che  non  basta  a  dicer  poco." 

— //  Paradiso.  Canto  xxxiii. 


\  >r>0^    Of  THS 


•>^         oar 


NEW  YORK : 

FORDS,  HOWARD,  &  HULBERT, 
London:  Sampson   Low  &  Co. 
1884.     ■ 


Copyright,  1884, 
By  Blanche  Roosevelt  Macchetta. 

A II  rights  reselrved. 


The  Chas.  M.  Green  Printing  Co. 
74  and  76  beekman  street, 

NEW  YORK. 


London,  April  27,  1884. 

Dear  Uncle  Ferdinand: 

I  dedicate  this  book  to  you.  The  road  is  long  be- 
tween Montana  and  London,  but  the  recollection  of 
your  many  kindnesses  to  me  bridges  it  over.  I  want 
to  persuade  American  girls  who  come  over  to  Europe 
to  study  music,  that  they  might  be  wiser  to  stay  at 
home.  Probably  my  advice  will  be  thrown  away,  and 
we  shall  still  see  hundreds,  e^ch  year  eager  to  waste 
their  time  and  other  people's  money  on  the  wild  ex- 
pectation that  they  will  in  a  few  years  blossom  forth 
as  prima  donnas,  and  have  the  whole  world  at  their 
feet.     If  they  do,  it  will  not  be  the  fault  of 

Your  affectionate  niece, 

Blanche. 
To  F.  C.  Roosevelt, 
^         Fort  Benton,  Montana. 


(p  ^fSf 


PREFACE. 


It  is  easier,  I  believe,  to  write  a  book  than  a  preface. 
And  why?  Because  one  can  write  a  book  without 
giving  a  reason  for  doing  it ;  whereas,  in  writing  a 
preface,  one  is  supposed  to  suggest  a  reason  for  writ- 
ing the  book.  From  the  criticisms  of  one's  friends,  it 
would  seem  that  they  consider  a  book  should  be  writ- 
ten solely  to  please  them. 

I  love  my  friends,  but  I  love  Art  better;  and  of  all 
art,  I  love  the  art  of  music  best.  It  is  with  the  hope 
of  strengthening  this  art — especially  in  relation  to  my 
own  country — that  I  submit  "  Stage-Struck'*  for  pub- 
lic judgment. 

As  the  theatre  is  the  finishing-school  for  the  drama, 
or  the  conservatory  for  musicians  of  every  grade,  so 
is  the  opera-house  the  true  finishing-school  for  the 
singer.  An  American  is  patriotic  in  everything  but 
music.  He  will  subscribe  thousands  to  enable  a 
speculating  manager  to  pay  fabulous  amounts  to 
Patti,  but  he  will  not  pay  units  to  establish  a  national 
opera-house,  or  a  real  "Academy  of  Music."  I  look 
forward  to  the  day  when  our  professors,  instead  of 
telling  their  pupils  that  they  must  go  to  Europe,  will 
be  in  a  position  to  say:  "  Now  you  are  sufficiently  ad- 
vanced to  go — not  to  Europe,  but — round  the  corner 
to  the  finishing-school  that  has  been  provided  for  you 


6  Preface. 

by  your  fathers,  your  brothers,  and  your  Nation."  It 
is  the  old  story  of  every  boy  in  the  public  schools  fully 
expecting  some  day  to  be  President  of  the  United 
States.  But  we  have  our  White  House  in  America, 
and  do  not  send  him  to  Europe  to  hunt  for  it.  The 
ambition  of  the  Italian  woman  is  to  sing  at  La  Scala; 
of  the  Austrian,  to  sing  at  the  Imperial  Opera;  of  the 
French  woman,  at  the  Grand  Opera;  of  the  German,  at 
the  Royal  Opera  at  Berlin;  of  the  Spaniard,  at  Ma- 
drid; of  the  English  woman,  at  Covent  Garden:  but  of 
the  American,  as  matters  are  at  present — well,  where 
she  can! 

It  is  this  fact  which  places  all  ambitious  American 
singers  at  such  a  disastrous  disadvantage;  and  it  is 
this  that  has  induced  me  to  write  "  Stage-Struck,"  with 
the  sincere  hope  that  it  may  serve  the  double  purpose 
of  a  guide-post  showing  my  country-men  what  should 
be  done,  and  a  danger-post  warning  my  inexperienced 
country-women  what  to  avoid. 

Beyond  saying  this,  I  make  no  appeal  for  toleration. 
I  put  forward  no  excuses  for  having  "rushed  into 
print." 

For  the  sake  of  my  country-women,  I  regret  the  fact 
that  the  story  is  a  true  one;  but,  if  this  narration  of 
truth  in  the  form  of  fiction  serve  to  warn  others  of  the 
dangers  of  being  "stage-struck,"  my  work  will  at  least 
have  had  the  success  I  wish  for  it.  I  knew  Annabel. 
Her  experiences  were  precisely  what  I  have  related. 
I  have  told  them  plainly,  because  I  wished  them  to  be 
plainly  understood. 

Blanche  Roosevelt. 

London,  April  27,  1884. 


STAGE-STRUCK. 


CHAPTER   I. 

La  Crosse  is  one  of  the  prettiest  towns  in  Wiscon- 
sin. It  takes  its  name  from  the  prairie  on  which  the 
first  settlement  was  made,  more  than  forty  years  ago, 
by  Colonel  Nathan  Myrick.  Whence  the  prairie  took 
its  name  is  not  known  unless  from  a  tribe  of  Redmen 
who  at  some  remote  date  claimed  it  for  their  hunting- 
ground.  In  front,  on  a  level  with  it,  flows  the  rapid 
Mississippi,  while  beyond  and  behind  rise  hills,  or 
**  bluffs"  as  they  are  commonly  called,  which  form 
gigantic  barriers  and  nestle  both  river  and  town  in 
their  protective  embrace.  The  situation  is  beautiful. 
Islands  gleam  here  and  there  in  the  river,  and  in  sum- 
mer when  seen  from  the  town  look  like  small  specks 
of  emerald  green.  A  little  below  the  city,  and  abut- 
ting on  the  bank,  is  a  picturesque  old  mill. 

Close  by,  there  is  a  long  strip  of  sanded  shore;  and 
here  the  workingmen's  children  on  summer  afternoons 
play,  and  wade  out  into  the  river,  dressed  in  long  old- 
fashiorfed  cotton  frocks,  which  they  borrow  of  their 
grannies  when  they  go  down  by  the  mill  to  paddle. 
Here  the  crystal  waters  run  up  and  down  the  sand 
like   silver  serpents,    licking   and   kissing   the   white 


8  Stage-Struck, 

grains,  which  glimmer  with  diamond-like  brightness. 
In  winter  the  river  is  frozen  over,  and  there  are  fre- 
quent sleighing-parties  on  it.  Usually  these  parties 
take  place  at  night,  when  the  atmosphere  is  so  still 
and  clear  that  sounds  travel  for  miles,  and  the  calm 
air  is  made  merry  with  the  sound  of  sleigh-bells  and 
of  laughter. 

On  a  bright  night  in  the  latter  part  of  December,  a 
party  of  young  people  glided  over  the  ice.  They 
were  going  down  the  river  about  sixteen  miles  in 
sleighs  to  Smith's  Landing,  where  the  evening  was  to 
wind  up  with  a  candy-pull  and  a  dance  at  Deacon 
Hart's.  But  this  was  not  all:  an  important  ceremony 
was  to  take  place.  Annabel  Almont,  of  Smith's 
Landing,  who  since  her  childhood  had  **  never  missed 
a  Sunday  going  up  to  La  Crosse  to  sing  in  the  church- 
choir,"  was  to  be  presented  with  a  purse  of  money  to 
aid  her  in  going  to  Europe  to  be  an  opera-singer. 

La  Crosse  is  a  go-ahead  city.  Its  lumber  interests 
are  enormous.  It  has  direct  communication  with  St. 
Louis  and  New  Orleans  through  the  steamboats 
which  ply  on  the  "  Father-of- Waters,"  and  its  com- 
mercial importance  is  great.  It  has  stores,  churches, 
high-schools,  grammar-schools,  a  fine  court-house,  and 
many  rich  dwellings,  surrounded  by  trees  and  flowers 
or  parks,  built  by  the  successful  tradesmen  and  lumber- 
merchants.  It  is  also  a  music-loving  city,  and  looks 
with  pride  on  its  fine  opera-house,  which  yearly  at- 
tracts the  best  talent  "  on  the  road."  But  Smith's 
Landing  is  a  poor  place,  and  can  boast  of  little  save 
that  it  is  so  near  La  Crosse  and  the  home  of  Annabel 
Almont.      Its   people   are   old   like   its    houses   (the 


Stage-Struck.  g 

younger  members  having  migrated  "  up  the  valley") 
and  the  two  places  present  one  of  those  strong  con- 
trasts so  often  met  with  in  the  New  World,  and  which 
is  the  inevitable  result  of  promiscuous  settlement. 

The  last  of  the  sleighs  had  filed  through  the  main 
street,  and  all  were  drawn  up  before  the  deacon's 
door.  Len,  the  deacon's  son  and  pride,  glanced 
proudly  at  the  house  as  he  led  the  way  inside.  And 
well  he  might,  for  it  was  the  finest  at  the  Landing — 
substantial,  square,  and  three-storied.  The  founda- 
tions were  of  stone  from  the  neighboring  bluffs;  the 
upper  part  was  of  wood  painted  white  with  green 
blinds;  and  the  ground-floor  had  two  bay-windows. 
The  interior  was  richly  decorated.  The  drawing- 
rooms,  or,  as  they  were  called,  the  parlors,  were  fur- 
nished with  a  suite  in  carved  rosewood  and  cherry 
satin,  protected  by  various  "  doyleys"  in  tatting,  cro- 
chet, and  the  celebrated  "Afghan  stitch."  It  was  the 
envy  of  every  housewife  in  Smith's  Landing.  A 
young  girl  came  out  on  the  steps  to  welcome  them. 
Turning  to  the  deacon's  Len,  she  essayed  to  speak. 

He  interrupted  her.  "Not  a  word,  for  Heaven's 
sake!  Think  of  your  voice,  and  be  silent.  Nod,  nod 
freely;  I  know  that  means  'Thank  you.'  This  is  the 
great  night  of  your  life,  and  you  must  sing  the  tops  of 
their  heads  off,  just  to  show  'em  that  Redmond's  girl 
is  nowhere.  Come  on  in,"  he  continued,  turning  to 
the  others.  "  We  are  home  at  last,  and  the  show'U 
soon  begin." 

Annabel  Almont,  the  young  girl  who  was  to  sing 
the  tops  of  her  friends*  heads  off,  was  the  pride  of  the 
church  where  she  sang  and  worshipped,  and  was  about 


lO  St  age-Struck, 

to  be  sent  abroad  to  study  for  the  opera.  From  early- 
childhood  she  had  been  the  mainstay  of  the  choir. 
Every  "  professor"  who  had  come  to  the  town  had 
solemnly  opined  that  such  a  voice  had  never  before 
been  heard,  and  the  elders  in  the  congregation  of  St. 
John's  Church  believed  it  to  be  rather  superior  to  that 
possessed  by  an  angel.  When,  therefore,  it  was  de- 
cided that  she  should  go  to  Europe,  it  was  felt  that 
some  slight  testimonial  ought  to  be  given  to  one  who 
was  likely  to  shed  such  a  lustre  on  La  Crosse  and 
Smith's  Landing. 

The  deacon  and  his  wife  stood  at  the  door,  welcom- 
ing the  youths  and  maidens  as  they  poured  in.  The 
arm-chairs  in  the  "  best  parlor"  were  already  tenanted 
by  stately  prim  old  ladies,  and  by  some  of  the  younger 
matrons  who,  having  the  right  of  way,  had  made  im- 
mediate good  use  of  it  to  secure  the  most  comfort- 
able places.  Annabel  was,  of  course,  the  star  of  the 
evening.  Old  and  young  looked  at  her  with  envious 
eyes,  and,  as  she  walked  here  and  there  amongst  the 
guests,  many  were  the  remarks  which  followed  her. 

Preparations  were  being  made  for  the  ceremony, 
which  was  to  be  something  very  imposing.  In  the 
mean  while,  the  stream  of  small-talk  ran  fast  and  furi- 
ous. Three  old  women  sat  in  three  chairs.  As  Anna- 
bel passed  before  them,  Mrs.  Redmond,  from  *  *  ^^ 
the  mother  of  a  girl  who  had  already  gone  abroad  to 
learn  to  sing,  was  speaking  to  Miss  Hetty,  the  "tall- 
est" gossip  in  the  town,  and  to  Miss  Hopkins,  an  acid- 
ulated old  maid  who  delighted  to  "  hear  anything." 

"  Look  at  her,"  she  said,  "going  to  Europe  just  be- 
cause my  gal's  gone.     She  wouldn't  take  me  with  her 


Stas^e-Struck,  1 1 


*^> 


because  I  am*  too  sea-sick;  and  besides,  it  is  a  false 
notion  that  American  girls  can't  go  off  to  Europe 
alone.  When  they  travel  from  Maine  to  Californy  with- 
out pertection,  I  guess  they  can  cross  the  herrin'- 
pond  without  anybody  runnin'  off  with  'em.  But  I 
must  say,  I  am  lonesome  without  her  sometimes.  I 
used  to  get  lots  of  epistolary  letters  from  her,  but  now 
she  hardly  ever  writes.  I  don't  say  much,  'cause  I 
must  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip;  but  I  kin  tell  you,  if  I  had 
a  thousand  girls  I'd  never  let  one  of  'em  go  to  Europe 
again — no,  not  even  to  be  an  opery-singer." 

Miss  Hetty  patted  her  friend's  shoulder  affection- 
ately, and  chimed  in,  "  My  dear,  don't  say  so.  You 
know  you  would  ;  and  if  you  wouldn't,  they  would — it's 
all  the  same.  But  how  will  Annabel  live  ?  That's  what 
beats  me.  Lord  bless  me,  them  Almonts  is  poor  and 
stuck  up  !  There  hain't  a  hen-coop  in  my  garden  as 
rickety  as  their  old  house.  The  father  is  a  poor  sort 
of  a  man.  But  I  won't  say  nothing  more,  only  how 
long  will  this  purse  hold  out,  and — and —  Well,  I 
sha'n't  say  no  more;  only  if  I  wanted  to,  I  could 
tell—" 

Miss  Hopkins  giggled  and  drew  her  chaii*  closer  to 
Miss  Hetty's.  Insinuatinga  very  withered  small  hand 
under  her  pocket-handkerchief,  which  was  spread  out 
catty-cornered  on  her  lap,  she  began  cooing  in  broken 
snatches — 

"Do  tell;  do  tell..  What  is  it  ?  Of  course  we  won't 
mention  it  again.  Anything  told  me  is  sacred.  And 
as  to  Mrs.  Redmond — why,  she  is  the  salt  of  the 
earth;  wild  horses  wouldn't  drag  anything  from  that 
woman." 


1 2  Stage-Struck. 

Miss  Hetty,  thus  importuned,  began.  "  It  isn't 
much,  but  I  overheard  her  talking  one  day  with  Len, 
the  deacon's  son.  He  said  he  was  going  to  Europe  as 
soon  as  he  could,  to  learn  to  sing.  She  said  she  would 
like  to  go,  but  didn't  know  how  she  could.  Now,  this 
was  only  last  fall,  and  I  believe  that  it  is  cut  and 
dried.  My  dears,  they  are  going  to  elope;  that's  what 
it  is." 

"  Oh,  Hetty,  Hetty,  how  can  you  ?"  sobbed  Miss 
Hopkins.  "But  oh,  oh!  don't  talk  so  loud.  Goon; 
do  go  on.  Of  course  I  won't  breathe  a  word  of  it. 
We  won't  breathe  a  word  of  it — will  we  ?"  and  she 
nodded  to  Mrs.  Redmond,  whose  black  eyes  danced 
like  those  of  a  rattlesnake. 

"  Breathe  it !"  she  muttered.    ''  I  should  think  not." 

Hetty  went  on.  "  She  spoke  about  Canada  and  her 
uncle — all  stuff,  of  course.  They  both  talked  up  the 
singing  business  together,  and  how  they  got  on  in 
the  church-choir.  You  know  they  are  both  in  it. 
She  said  her  mother  could  not  come  away  at  once 
with  her;  but  that  she  would  do  anything  to  be  an 
opera-singer — would  make  any  sacrifice;  would  leave 
her  family  and  home  at  a  moment's  notice,  and — 
and — " 

"And  go  with  him,"  said  Miss  Hopkins,  trium- 
phantly. "  I  knew  it.  Oh,  you  may  as  well  tell  the 
truth;  of  course  she  said  it." 

"Well,  I  presume  she  did.  I  could'nt  take  my 
Bible  oath  that  she  did  say  it;  but  I — I —  You  are 
sure  that  you  won't  repeat  what  I've  been  telling  you  ? 
I  am  a  little  anxious." 

"Anxious,  my  dear  ?"  said  Mrs.  Redmond.  "  Noth- 


Stage-Struck.  13 

ing  could  induce  us  to  even  hint  the  slightest  shade 
of  the  substance  of  the  shadow  of  such  a  thing. 
What  do  you  take  us  for  ?" 

''Well,  I  heard  this,  and.  I  firmly  believe  that — 
Now,  do  I  look  like  a  woman  who  would  invent  ?" 

"  Stop,  Hetty,"  said  Miss  Hopkins.  "  I  won't  say 
anything,  but  when  she  has  fled  with  her  purse  and 
her — her — no,  I  will  not  say  the  word — may  I  break 
the  news  to  her  mother,  and  to  a  few  of  my  intimate 
friends  ?" 

Miss  Hetty  was  about  to  reply,  when  the  folding 
doors  were  opened,  and  Deacon  Hart  appeared,  lead- 
ing Annabel  by  the  hand.  There  was  a  stir,  a  hush, 
and  a  burst  of  applause.  The  deacon  bowed,  then 
waved  the  young  girl  into  a  seat.  He  hemmed  and 
hawed,  and  at  length  commenced. 

"  Sisters  and  brothers,  we  are  gathered  here  on  a 
solemn  occasion.  I  am  not  used  to  public  speaking 
in  my  own  house,  and  I  ask  your  indulgence.  But 
the  occasion  is  a  very  solemn  one.  I  may  add  that  it 
is  also  a  joyful  occasion.  I — "  He  stopped  and 
looked  around.  A  dead  silence  followed  his  words. 
He  took  courage,  and  continued.  "A  joyful  one. 
Our  young  friend — our  sister  in  the  Lord,  I  may  say — 
has  given  much  pleasure  by  her  sweet  voice,  and  has 
caused  the  choir  to  assert  itself  as  the  leading  choir 
in  any  church  of  La  Crosse  or  any  other  town.  The 
congregation,  wishing  to  show  an  affectionate  regard 
and  appreciation  of  the  talents  of  this  young  lute- 
voiced  soprano,  has  made  up  a  purse,  which  I  now 
have  the  honor  and  pleasure  of  presenting  to  her." 

Annabel  was  nudged  violently  by  Miss  Hetty,  who 


14  Stage-Struck, 

was  near.  "Get  up  and  bow,"  she  said;  "get  up, 
quick." 

Annabel  half  rose  and  looked  around.  A  flush  of 
pleasure  tinted  her  soft  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  deep- 
ened with  excitement  and  pride. 

Deacon  Hart  took  her  by  the  hand,  and  then  the 
applause  became  tumultuous,  deafening.  He  hemmed 
and  hawed,  and  began  again. 

"  On  this  auspicious  occasion,  I  feel  it  my  duty  to 
say  a  few  words.  Years  ago  a  family  came  to  our 
Landing  from  La  Crosse,  a  family  whom  we  have  all 
grown  to  know  and  respect.  In  this  family  was  one 
young  girl.  At  the  age  of  six  she  was  one  day  dis- 
covered in  a  tree,  singing — singing  like  a  mocking- 
bird— 

"  *0  woodman,  spare  that  tree.' 

But  to  proceed.  A  man  passing  by  heard  her.  This 
man  was  a  famous  singing-master.  He  came  to  vil- 
ages;  he  discovered  voices;  he  stirred  up  dormant 
lambition;  he  set  the  music-ball  a-rolling;  he  demon- 
strated to  us  that,  although  a  new  town,  we  had  the 
mighty  instincts  of  art  which  make  us  the  equal  in 
everything  to  great  cities.  He  got  up  classes,  and  then 
things  culminated  in  grand  concerts.  The  girl  sing- 
ing in  the  tree  was  Annabel  Almont.  The  learned 
singing-master  who  first  heard  her  has  been  gathered 
to  his  fathers,  but  by  a  special  Providence  another 
took  his  place,  and  yet  another. 

"  When  I  heard  Annabel,  at  the  tender  age  of  six, 
in' Those  Evening  Bells;*  when  at  ten  she  led  her 
class  in  *  I  want  to  be  an  Angel;'  when,  later  on,  she 
had  mastered  *  'Way  down  upon  the  Suwanee  River/ 


Stage-Struck.  1 5 

and  'What  is  Home  without  a  Mother  ? '  my  breast 
glowed.  I  said  to  myself,  we  must  give  this  voice  to  the 
world.  Have  we  a  right  to  keep  trammelled  in  our  choir 
a  talent  which  is  bound  to  paralyze  the  universe  ?  This 
girl  is  destined  to  become  a  great  star  on  the  lyric 
stage,  and  a  star  which  will  rise  from  our  own  sky. 
But  for  this  she  must  go  to  Europe.  She  has  little 
money;  still,  what  is  vulgar  lucre  compared  with 
talent  ?  We  will  give  her  of  ours — ahem — a  moderate 
amount  of  ours." 

The  deacon  paused  to  refresh  himself  with  a  glass 
of  water.     He  then  continued: 

"When  La  Crosse's  name  shines  in  history,  will  it 
be  for  her  mills,  for  her  river  commerce,  for  her  new 
post-office,  for  her  town-hall,  for  her  mighty  levees 
against  which  the  great  leviathan  Mississippi  vainly 
dashes  in  awful  and  sublime  frenzy  ?  I  say,  No.  Nine 
cities  claim  to  be  the  birthplace  of  Homer;  hundreds 
will  vainly  claim  to  be  the  birthplace  of  Annabel 
Almont.  But  History  will  do  justice  to  La  Crosse; 
she  will  say  that  it  was  her  native  town.  God  bless 
you,  my  dear" — giving  her  the  purse.  "And  now,  as 
a  parting  favor,  sing  the  song  which  stamped  you  yet 
in  youth  as  the  one  upon  whose  shoulders  Molly 
Brown's"  (he  probably  meant  Malibran's)  "  mantle 
was  to  fall.  We  will  afterwards  proceed  with  the 
candy-pull.  I  see  all  of  the  young  folks  are  waiting 
for  their  taffy." 

The  deacon  sat  down,  perspiring  and  wiping  his 
brow.  Annabel  was  trembling  and  anxious,  and  she 
held  the  purse  tight  in  her  hand. 

Len   whispered,   "Courage.     Isn't   it  perfectly  ele- 


1 6  St  age-Struck. 

gant  ?  Sing  for  dear  life.  Do  you  know  how  much 
you  have  got  in  your  purse  ?  I  will  accompany  you. 
What  shall  you  sing  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  answered  Annabel;  "lam  so 
frightened,  and  I  can't  see  mamma.  Where  is  she  ? 
and  where  is  father?" 

"Mamma!  father  !"  said  Len.  "  Nevermind  them; 
you  belong  to  the  world.  You  must  bear  up.  How 
can  you  ever  expect  to  be  a  singer,  when  you  have 
time  to  ask  about  your  family  at  this  critical  moment? 
But  there  they  are,  bowing  and  smiling,  and  urging 
you  to  go  on." 

Sure  enough  there  they  were,  hustled  in  a  corner. 
For  a  moment  the  authors  of  her  being  were  for- 
gotten. She  took  heart;  and  Len,  seating  himself  at 
a  new  brown  melodeon,  commenced  a  few  chords. 

The  deacon  arose.  "  I  think  that  I  represent  the 
wish  of  all  present  when  I  ask  for  the  simple  song 
which  goes  straight  home  to  all  our  hearts,  which  re- 
calls our  earliest  past,  and  reminds  us  of  our  eternal 
future." 

Len  struck  the  prelude  to  "  I  want  to  be  an  Angel." 
"  Come,  Annabel,"  he  said,  "  if  you  wait  any  longer, 
father's  wings  will  have  time  to  sprout." 

She  commenced,  but  emotion  almost  choked  her 
voice.  When  she  got  to  "  A  harp  within  my  hand,"  she 
thrilled  all  over.  A  loud  murmuring  of  applause 
went  up.  She  clasped  her  purse,  and  went  bravely 
on.  Before  the  song  was  over,  her  lovely  voice  soared 
up  like  a  young  lark.     At  the  lines, 

*'  There  right  before  my  vision,  ^ 

So  glorious  and  so  bright,'* 


Stage-Struck,  17 

there  was  not  a  dry  eye  in  the  house;  nothing  but 
music,  laughing,  and  crying. 

Annabel  was  overwhelmed  with  congratulations, 
and  all  crowded  so  around  her  that  her  mother  could 
scarcely  get  near.  Elder  Watson  stood  by  her,  and 
pressed  her  hand  in  his  moist  palm.  He  was  an  unctu- 
ous man,  although  a  good  one,  and  was  called  the 
boss  musical  critic  of  the  town,  owing  to  his  profound 
knowledge  of  botany. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  "  you've  wilted  us  all.  Patti 
can't  touch  you  with  a  ten-foot  pole.  Go  and  conquer. 
When  you  feast  at  kings'  tables,  when  queens  call  you 
by  your  first  name,  when  princesses  treat  you  like  a 
sister,  when  the  boiled-down  aristocrats  of  the  Old 
World  grovel  at  your  feet,  do  not  forget  the  choir 
where  you  first  knew  fame,  or  that  John  Watson  bet 
tall  dollars  that  you'd  lap  over  all  of  'em;"  and  he  im- 
planted a  paternal  kiss  on  her  brow. 

The  deacon  then  asked  a  benediction;  and  no  sooner 
was  it  finished  than  all  poured  into  the  great  dining- 
room,  where  preparations  had  been  made  for  the  candy- 
pull. 

The  huge  kettle,  with  quarts  of  molasses  in  it,  was 
already  simmering  over  the  fire.  The  usual  "frills," 
as  Miss  Hetty  called  them — namely,  some  maple-sugar, 
a  little  salt,  a  chunk  of  butter,  and  a  little  soda — had 
been  already  added  to  the  brew.  Well-greased  plat- 
ters were  on  the  long  table,  with  the  fresh  butter 
shining  on  the  porcelain.  There  was  a  pile  of  plates, 
and  the  butter  was  passed  round  so  that  all  might 
grease  their  hands.  When  the  molasses  was  consid- 
ered well  boiled,  it  was  ladled  out  into  the  huge  plat- 


l8  Stage-Struck. 

ters.  The  hot  molasses  now  became  a  gluey  paste, 
divided  up.  All  stood  anxiously  around  the  table 
whilst  the  butter  was  distributed,  and  the  pulling  pro- 
cess commenced.  Each  had  a  liberal  portion.  The 
hot  paste  was  pounded,  rolled,  beaten,  stretched, 
massed  together  again;  and  loving  couples  got  slyly 
into  corners  with  their  lot  of  candy  between  them. 
What  flirtation  would  not  thrive  under  a  quarter  of  a 
yard  of  yielding  candy-paste  acting  as  a  bond  of 
union  ! 

'*  Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell." 

There  were  occasional  screams  of,  "  Oh,  how  hot !" 
"  I  am  burning  my  fingers."  "  Come  and  help  me 
pull  mine."  And  each  girl  adroitly  managed  to  burn 
her  fingers  precisely  at  the  moment  when  the  youth 
came  near  whom  she  wanted  by  her  side. 

'  Soon  the  critical  moment  arrived.  Whose  candy 
was  the  best,  the  whitest,  the  most  brittle,  and  the 
quickest  made  ?  A  jury  was  impanelled  to  decide. 
As  soon  as  their  verdict  was  delivered,  the  elders  came 
in.  A  rosette  was  solemnly  pinned  on  the  breast  of 
the  victor,  and  supper  was  announced  as  ready.  Then 
there  was  a  cry,  "  O,  let's  have  some  pop-corn  with 
our  candy !" 

Len  spoke  up.  "  No;  supper  first — supper  first. 
Those  who  are  in  favor  of  supper  hold  up  their 
hands." 

"  No,  no,"  said  another  voice;  "that  isn't  the  square 
thing.  Annabel  must  decide,  because  she  is  going  to 
be  an  opera-singer." 


Stage-Struck.  19 

Annabel  accepted  the  umpireship  shyly.  "  I  should 
say,"  she  said  softly,  "  that  those  who  are  hungry 
should  eat,  and  those  who  want  corn-popping  should 
have  it  now." 

This  decision  was  received  with  acclamation.  Some 
went  off  to  supper,  and  others — amongst  these  Anna- 
bel— were  for  the  pop-corn, 

Len,  who  had  changed  his  mind,  went  to  the  kit- 
chen, and  came  back  with  the  corn-poppers — little 
closed  pans  made  entirely  of  wire  net,  with  long 
handles,  very  like  miniature  warming-pans.  Some 
shelled  corn  was  distributed,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
the  little  yellow  kernels  were  browning  and  snapping 
over  the  fire  in  their  wire  cages,  and  then  bursting 
into  white  flakes,  like  orange-blossoms  or  a  four- 
leaved  clover. 

*'Go  ahead,  anybody,"  said  Len.  "This  is  Liberty 
Hall."  He  was  vigorously  shaking  his  popper. 
"  Don't  wait  for  me,  although  I'll  soon  have  mine 
done." 

Annabel  stood  next  him.  She  took  the  handle 
of  the  popper.  "  Let  me  shake  it,"  said  she,  insinu- 
atingly; then  she  whispered,  "Did  I  sing  well?" 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  yielding  up  the  wire  cage,  **  ele- 
gantly. What  a  lovely  evening!  I  shall  never  forget 
it  till  my  dying  day,  and  that  will  be  years  and  years 
from  now.  When  will  you  go  to  Europe — before  me  ? 
I  intend  starting  as  soon  as  possible;  at  a  minute's 
notice.  Don't  say  anything,  but  I'll  spring  it  on  this 
community  like  a  patent  trap,  so  everybody's  head'U 
swim.  Oh,  there  is  nothing  mean  about  me  !  I  do  as 
I  please;   that  comes  of  being  a  P.  I.  G. — perfectly 


20  Stage-Struck. 

independent    gentleman.      It's   different   with    girls. 
But  you  can't  complain;  you  are  in  clover." 

,  She  dreamily  agitated  the  corn-popper,  and  mur- 
mured, "  I  wonder  if — if  I  shall  ever  become  a  great 
singer." 

"  A  great  singer  !"  he  echoed,  amazed.  "  Why,  you 
are  one  now.  When  the  money  was  taken  up,  there 
wasn't  a  human  being  who  didn't  allow  that  you  were 
the  best  they  ever  heard;  and  some,  you  know,  have 
been  to  Boston  and  all  over." 

She  held  out  her  popper.  "  Mine  is  ready,"  she 
said;  and  they  went  towards  the  table. 

The  flaky  corn  was  emptied  into  a  white  bowl; 
then  it  was  prepared,  with  a  little  salt  sprinkled  over 
it,  and  a  little  drawn  butter.  After  this,  handfuls 
were  rolled  in  the  hot  molasses.  In  no  time  the  balls 
began  piling  themselves  up,  and  supper  was  an- 
nounced as  quite  ready.  There  was  a  sound  of  ham- 
mering in  one  corner,  where  some  children  were  crack- 
ing hickory-nuts. 

The  room  was  filled  to  overflowing.  In  addition  to 
the  children's  voices,  the  deacon's,  Miss  Hetty's,  Miss 
Hopkins's,  Annabel's  mother's,  and  those  of  the  other 
guests  chimed  in.  Every  one  was  talking  at  once,  and 
the  supper  disappeared  as  if  by  magic.  The  tables 
groaned  with  home  luxuries.  There  were  great  loaves 
of  spiced  bread,  gingerbread  cookies,  marble-cake, 
pies,  sandwiches  of  every  kind,  cider,  coffee,  and  home- 
cured  cucumbers,  salted  before  sunset  and  pickled  at 
just  the  right  time,  not  to  speak  of  various  relishes 
and  preserved  fruit. 

When  Miss   Hetty   sat  down,  she   sighed,  saying, 


Stage-Struck,  21 

"  Well,  Deacon  Hart,  I  must  say  this  affair  has  been  a 
success,  and  we  owe  it  all  to  you." 

The  deacon  smiled  blandly,  but  disclaimed  any  spe- 
cial credit  to  himself.  He  said,  "  It  was  in  the  cause 
of  art,  dear  Miss  Hetty.  Annabel's  a  sweet  singer. 
You  know  what  Shakespeare  said  about  the  man 
who  had  no  music  in  his  soul.  I  am  not  like  that  man. 
I  adore  music.  Even  an  accordeon  sends  me  off  into 
ecstasies,  and  I  lie  awake  nights  to  listen  to  the  cal- 
liope on  the  steamboats.  I  want  to  see  Annabel  suc- 
ceed, and  no  one  can  say  I  believe  in  a  girl  spending 
her  life  knitting  stockings  when  she  has  a  voice  worth 
cultivating.  Len  is  also  a  singer.  He's  good  for 
nothing  else;  so  I  expect  he'll  want  to  be  starting 
abroad  soon,  although  he  may  never  go  on  the 
stage.  I'm  fond  of  my  boy;  but  if  Art  calls,  he  must 
obey." 

All  now  was  being  prepared  for  the  dance.  The 
table  was  put  away,  the  melodeon  was  dragged  near 
the  door,  and  the  "  Virginia  Reel "  was  coaxed  out  of 
it  in  wheezy  but  emphatic  measures. 

Annabel  danced  once.  '*  It  will  be  for  the  last 
time,"  said  Len,  "  until  we  dance  together  in  Europe. 
Never  mind  spoiling  your  voice  for  to-night.  You 
haven't  to  sing  in  the  next  few  days.  Annabel,"  he 
said  suddenly,  *'  are  you  sorry  that  you  are  going 
away  ?" 

"  No.  I — I  mean  that  I  shall  miss  all  of  my 
friends — you — " 

"  Thanks.  But  you  won't  miss  me  long;  I  am  going 
to  Europe  myself.  We  will  both  fetch  up  stars  in  some 
great  foreign  opera  company  yet.     I  suppose  my  voice 


22  St  age-Struck. 

really  is  about  the  best  in  the  town  next  to  yours."  He 
led  her  to  a  seat. 

"  There  is  no  doubt  of  it.     I—" 

Annabel's  mother  came  towards  her  just  then. 
"My  dear,  you  must  go  home;  you  are  so  tired." 

"  Yes,  mamma." 

She  rose  obediently,  and,  after  bidding  every  one  a 
tender  farewell,  they  started  to  go.  This  was  a  signal 
for  a  general  breaking-up  of  the  company.  All  the 
women  and  most  of  the  men  kissed  her.  She  was  to 
leave  the  next  day,  and  there  was  nothing  but  con- 
gratulations and  cries  of  "  Good  luck"  and  "  Don't  for- 
get us  when  you  become  a  great  artist." 

When  the  final  farewells  were  over,  they  went  away. 
The  door  opened  once  again,  and  an  old  slipper  came 
flying  after  Annabel. 

"  That's  for  luck,"  shouted  a  voice.  The  slipper  had 
been  thrown  by  Elder  Watson  in  person. 

It  hit  her  upon  the  head  with  a  little  thud.  There 
was  a  shout  from  the  party  as  she  snatched  at  it; 
but  she  did  not  pick  it  up,  as  she  feared  her  doing  so 
would  spoil  her  luck. 

And  this  was  her  farewell.  The  next  day  she 
started  with  her  family  to  New  York,  the  first  stage 
on  her  way  to  Milan. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Annabel  found  that  a  stay  in  New  York  for  a 
Western  girl  was  not  to  be  despised.  Instead  of  the 
intended  three  months,  she  spent  over  a  year  in 
Gotham.  Len  had  gone  to  Europe  close  upon  the 
heels  of  the  candy-pull.  He  was  now,  he  wrote, 
"  a  great  star,  and  had  sung  in  Italy  in  *  La  Sonnam- 
bula  '  more  than  sixty  times."  She  was  anxious  to 
get  away,  yet  half  sorry.  She  had  been  studying 
hard  all  these  months.  Her  mother  had  gone  to 
Canada  to  "  Uncle  Jim,"  to  see  if  he  would  not  help 
her.  The  purse  had  long  since  been  exhausted; 
they  had  even  known  real  poverty  in  Gotham;  yet  she 
had  lost  neither  courage  nor  ambition.  At* last  her 
father  managed  to  scrape  together  a  little  money, 
and  she  Was  on  the  eve  of  departure  for  Europe. 
Going  alone,  of  course;  but  all  American  girls  did 
that.  Still,  as  the  last  moments  of  her  stay  ap- 
proached, she  could  not  help  feeling  a  little  sad.  She 
went  down  to  the  steamer  with  her  father  and  a  few 
friends,  and  she  was  almost  glad  that  her  mother  was 
not  there  to  bid  her  a  second  farewell.  They  had 
parted  before  she  went  to  Canada.  There  was  the 
usual  crowd  at  the  dock  to  see  the  steamer  off,  and 
the  usual  number  of  bouquets  were  hurled  on  to  the 
deck.  Annabel  stood  leaning  over  the  bulwarks. 
Her  father  shouted  out  to  her, 


24  Stage-Struck. 

"Write  from  Queenstown." 

"  Yes." 

"  Don't  forget  the  cure  for  sea-sickness." 

"No." 

"  Do  you  iiear  me  plainly  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  When  the  ship  puts  off,  we  shall  all  be  on  the 
outer  pier.  Look  for  three  white  handkerchiefs  all 
flying  at  once.  They  will  belong  to  our  party. 
Look — " 

The  voice  was  lost  in  space.  There  was  a  horrid 
din,  a  crashing  of  iron  chains,  a  grating  against  the 
dock,  and  the  huge  steamer  left  her  moorings. 
Slowly  she  put  out  to  sea.  On  the  extreme  end  of 
the  pier  were  thousands  of  moving  forms  and  eager 
eyes  all  strained  to  catch  a  last  glimpse  of  the  de- 
parting loved  ones. 

There  was  a  shout  amongst  the  crowd.  "  Here  we 
are;  look  this  way,  Annabel,  Annabel!"  Then  three 
damp  white  handkerchiefs  floated  off  from  a  pale 
bamboo  stick  which  was  held  in  the  hands  of  a  tall 
young  man.  What  if  the  linen  were  damp!  It  was 
more  than  that:  it  was  wet.  But  this  was  not  the 
fault  of  the  washerwoman.  The  handkerchiefs  had 
been  honestly  dried.  They  had  since  seen  service  in 
the  wiping  away  of  tears — genuine  tears  that  would 
fall,  all  because  Annabel  Almont  was  going  to  Europe. 

She  still  wanted  to  be  an  opera-singer.  Even  in 
New  York  girls  wish  to  go  to  Europe.  There  was  no 
help  for  it;  she  was  at  last  en  route. 

A  slender  creature,  she  leaned  against  the  ship's 
side.     She   saw   the    handkerchiefs,   she    heard    the 


Stage-Struck,  25 

voices,  and  a  faint  smile  broke  over  her  tear-stained 
face.  Now  that  the  moment  of  leaving  her  country 
had  come,  what  cared  she  for  ambition !  The  recol- 
lection of  the  thousand-and-one  almost  forgotten 
scenes  of  her  childhood  came  back  to  her.  She  re- 
called even  the  incident  of  her  last  evening  at  home — 
the  candy-pull,  the  purse,  and  the  lucky  slipper. 

The  faces  which  looked  so  eagerly  at  her  from  the 
pier  were  all  beautiful  in  her  eyes.  Her  heart  beat 
fast.  Would  she  ever  see  them  again?  Last  of  all 
to  take  a  parting  look  was  her  father.  He  had  cap- 
tured the  bamboo  stick.  He  waved  it  at  her  as  he 
smiled  a  farewell  to  his  daughter,  who  was  leaving 
her  native  shores,  to  be  away  perhaps  for  ever,  be- 
cause she  wanted  to  be  an  opera-singer. 

The  girl  nodded  and  smiled.  She  could  no  longer 
distinguish  his  words.  Her  father's  voice  mingled 
with  the  deafening  cheer  that  went  up  from  the 
thousands  on  the  dock. 

At  last  the  pier  is  positively  out  of  sight.  This  is 
too  much.  She  knows  that  she  cannot  now  go  back. 
The  terrible  thought  that  perhaps  she  may  never  see 
her  father,  her  mother,  her  friends  again,  passes 
through  her  mind.  This  time  she  is  overwhelmed; 
she  breaks  down  completely.  The  tears  come,  but  do 
not  fall.  Her  heart  beats,  her  brain  whirls;  she  is 
choking,  suffocating  with  a  thousand  emotions. 
She  hears  a  roaring  sound  in  her  ears,  and  suffers 
such  violent  spasms  that  it  seems  as  if  she  were  dying. 
The  sensations  in  her  chest  are  frightful.  She  almost 
sobs  aloud,  but  the  sound  dies  away  in  her  throat. 
Great  Heaven!   had   she   already  lost  her  voige?    It 


26  Stage-Struck. 

would  not  be  surprising.  All  the  leave-takings  dur- 
ing these  last  few  days  of  continuous  excitement 
were  enough  to  tell  upon  the  stoutest  heart. 

Yes,  it  must  be  so.  She  had  heard  of  great  artists 
who,  overcome  by  sudden  emotion,  had  lost  their 
voices  completely.  Last  night,  and  indeed  for  the 
last  few  days,  she  had  sung  badly.  She  could  not 
conceal  it  from  herself.  Her  upper  C  had  failed  once  ; 
her  A  natural  broke  on  a  sustained  tone  ;  and  she  now 
remembered  with  appalling  distinctness  that  an  ordi- 
nary B  flat  had  come  to  complete  grief  in  a  simple 
cradle-song. 

This  will  never  do,  she  thought.  Girls  who  wish  to 
be  opera-singers  must  not  cry.  It  ruins  the  voice. 
There  is  nothing  more  injurious.  She  tried  not  to 
sob,  but  with  the  effort  the  tears  came.  No  one  is 
near  as  she  bravely  attempts  a  few  notes,  just  to  see  if 
her  voice  is  really  gone.  In  an  ecstasy  of  dread  she 
begins  "  Ah — ah — ah-ing  ;"  a  soft  little  scale  gurgles 
in  her  throat.  It  goes  up,  up,  and  it  stops.  She  tries 
again.  Another,  half  a  tone.  Alas  !  in  her  preoccu- 
pation she  goes  at  least  a  note  higher  than  she  had 
intended.  The  result  is  even  more  disastrous.  Her 
tears  suddenly  cease.  Has  she  lost  her  voice  ?  She 
tries  again,  and  lo  !  a  sound  breaks  forth — a  peculiar 
sound.  It  might  not  be  in  harmony  with  Radcliffe's 
flute,  but  it  is  something,  and  she  has  not  lost  her 
voice. 

Her  face  wears  a  smile,  her  eyes  brighten,  and  she 
lifts  her  head  ;  but  just  at  this  moment  she  sees  a 
man  approaching.     He,  too,  is  smiling. 

The  owner  of  this  smile  is  a  man  probably  about 


Stage-Struck,  27 

fifty  years  of  age.  He  is  gray,  and  looks  kindly  at 
her. 

"You  felt  pretty  bad,"  he  said,  "when  we  left  the 
pier." 

"Yes.  It's  quite  disgraceful  in  any  one  who  wishes 
to  be  an  artist  to  show  her  feeling  to  the  first  passer- 
by ;  but—" 

"I  suppose  that  was  your  father  whom  you  left,  and 
those  were  your  sisters." 

"  Yes  ;  that  was  my  dear  father." 

"  Poor  child  !  He  must  hate  to  part  with  you.  But 
cheer  up.  We  are  on  a  stanch  old  steamer,  and  you 
will  be  across  before  you  know  it.  There  is  not  the 
slightest  danger.     You  don't  feel  afraid,  do  you  ?" 

"No.    I  wasn't  afraid  of  the  steamer.     I  feared — " 

"I  thought  I  heard  you  scream." 

"Scream  !"  she  thought.  He  had  been  listening  to 
her,  the  mean  thing  !  He  had  heard  her  few  notes, 
and  called  it  screaming.  A  blush  came  to  her  cheek 
when  she  discovered  that  he  had  heard  her.  It  was  on 
the  tip  of  her  tongue  to  say  something  brusque  ;  then 
reflection  calmed  her.  Perhaps  he  was  right.  All 
people  do  not  love  music  ;  all  men  cannot  appreciate 
fine  voices.  This  man  was  one  of  those  who  could 
not.  He  did  not  appreciate  hers.  It  was  very  simple, 
and  nothing  to  get  mad  about. 

She  looked  up  amiably,  but  still  blushing. 
"Scream?"  she  said.  "I  didn't  mean  to  scream.  I 
thought  that  I  would  try  my  voice,  to  see  if — if  I  had 
not  lost  it." 

"  Try  your  voice  ?" 

"Yes."    This  Malibran  in  embryo  then  divulged 


28  Stage-Struck. 

her  great  secret.  "  x  am  going  to  become  an  opera- 
singer." 

The  man  appeared  surprised.  He  looked  at  her 
slight  form,  pale  face,  and  lustrous  eyes.  He  seemed 
positively  startled. 

"  Impossible  !"  he  ejaculated  ;  "  another  one  !" 
Then  he  bowed  strangely  and,  turning  on  his  heel, 
left  her. 

Annabel  stared  curiously  at  her  extraordinary  ac- 
quaintance. She  could  scarcely  understand  his  re- 
mark and  his  abrupt  way  of  leaving  her.  What  could 
he  mean?  She  repeated  the  words  *' another  one" 
with  an  expression  half  of  wonder,  half  of  fear.  It 
then  struck  her  that  he  had  referred  to  the  fact  of  her 
wishing  to  be  an  opera-singer,  and  her  wondering  ex- 
pression turned  to  one  of  pride. 

"I  suppose  he  thinks  that  I  shall  fail,"  she  muttered 
to  herself.  "  But  he  can  form  no  possible  idea  of  my 
ambition  and  determination  to  succeed.  I  will  work 
so  hard  that  I  shall  overcome  all  obstacles.  Talent 
has  not  half  so  much  to  do  with  success  as  some  sup- 
pose. Will-power  is  everything  ;  is  all,  in  fact.  Alice 
Redmond  hadn't  even  a  voice  ;  and  look  at  her  now, 
at  the  top  of  her  profession  !.  Why,  she  could  not  for 
dear  life  read  or  sing  an  ordinary  psalm-tune  without 
putting  out  the  whole  congregation  ;  and  now!  Now 
princes  are  at  her  feet,  royalty  is  sending  her  auto- 
graphed photographs,  and  dollars  are  rolling  into  her 
lap.  She  calls  herself  Raimondiy  and  she  can't  sing 
half  as  high  as  I  can.  Of  course,  I  must  change  my 
name  ;  I  shall  call  myself  Annabellad'Almonti.  Capi- 
tal !     I  can  see  myself  now  on  the  bills — starred^  of 


Stage-Struck.  29 

course — 'Signorina  Annabella  d'Almonti.  The  dis- 
tinguished cantatrice  will  make  her  first  appearance 
in — '  Let  me  see — well,  say  as  *  Lucia  ; '  that  gives 
me  a  chance  to  show  off  my  voice  with  the  flute.  My 
success  cannot  come  all  at  a  jump.  But  before  I  know 
where  I  am,  I  shall  be  returning  home  to  America  in 
state,  in  receipt  of  a  thousand  dollars  a  night  just  like 
Nilsson,  with  all  the  world  at  my  feet.  It  is  worth 
working  for  ;  it  is  well  worth  leaving  home  for — " 

She  stopped  suddenly.  She  had  nearly  said  "  for 
ever" — words  of  ominous  portent.  Was  it  worth 
while  to  leave  her  home  and  her  friends  ?  Was  suc- 
cess so  certain  ?  Were  energy  and  determination 
enough  to  make  her  an  artist  ? 

For  a  moment  she  hesitated  ;  then,  like  a  true 
American,  she  rejected  even  the  possibility  of  failure. 
The  chief  characteristic  of  her  race  is  a  determination 
to  succeed  in  whatever  they  undertake.  Be  the  career 
what  it  may,  they  never  follow  it  half-heartedly.  An 
American  has  ambition,  pride,  industry,  indomitable 
will,  shrewdness,  energy,  perseverance,  always  tact, 
and  often  talent.  The  last  he  accounts  the  least  of 
all.  His  determination  to  get  out  of  the  common  rut 
of  ordinary  humanity,  to  be  somebody  or  something 
in  this  world,  is  the  one  motive  of  all  his  actions. 
What  others  have  done  he  may  do.  Let  him  slave 
night  and  day,  what  cares  he  if  only  he  progress  to- 
wards his  goal!  He  believes,  in  the  end,  that  he  will 
hit  upon  the  something  for  which  nature  has  specially 
qualified  him.  Should  he  fail  in  one  thing,  he  at- 
tempts another  with  the  same  illusion  and  exuberant 
hope  which  characterized  his  setting  out  on  the  first. 


30  Stage-Struck. 

Americans  cannot  be  crushed.  Gray  hairs,  lined  faces, 
and  even  bankruptcy  see  them  still  on  the  alert,  ready 
to  undertake  any  new  task,  no  matter  how  difficult — 
still  firmly  believing  in  themselves  and  their  power  to 
command  success.  They  are  a  brave  race  who  ignore 
the  possibility  of  ultimate  failure. 

The  shores  of  Long  Island  and  Staten  Island  had 
long  since  faded  from  sight.  The  beautiful  entrance 
to  the  harbor  had  grown  into  a  faint  line  against  the 
horizon.  The  air  was  soft,  and  the  waves  broke  coyly 
about  the  ship. 

It  was  the  24th  of  May,  the  Queen's  birthday,  and 
it  was  queen's  weather.  Gay  bits  of  bunting  floated 
at  the  mast-heads.  The  Union  Jack  was  run  up,  and 
sailed  in  the  air  with  such  assurance  that  it  seemed 
to  command  allegiance  from  Neptune  himself.  At 
the  stern  of  the  ship  fluttered  the  stars  and  stripes, 
which  told  the  old  tale  of  the  New  World. 

Annabel  was  alone,  yet  not  alone.  Her  mind  was 
filled  with  imaginings,  and  her  heart  was  troubled 
with  the  events  of  the  last  few  days.  No  matter, 
though,  what  her  regrets  were,  her  ambition  was  still 
stronger.  The  die  was  cast;  she  would  attain  her 
end  or  perish  in  the  attempt.  Yet  it  was  hard  leav- 
ing father,  mother,  home,  and  friends,  from  a  vain 
longing  to  be  something  in  this  world,  and  a  desire  to 
be  able  tt)  help  those  at  home. 

Night  fell  upon  the  sea.  The  deck-stewards  went 
"for'ard  and  aft"  with  astonishing  celerity.  Camp- 
chairs  had  been  adjusted  and  blankets  spread,  only 
to  be  neglected  the  next  moment.  Everybody  went 
below  to  see  about  their  staterooms,  their  luggage, 


Stage-Struck.  3 1 

their  flowers,  and,  above  all,  to  discover  if  they  had 
been  assigned  places  at  the  captain's  table.  Of  two 
hundred  first-cabin  passengers,  each  fully  expected 
that  distinguished  honor.  Twenty  who  cared  least 
about  it  found  their  names  neatly  written  and  placed 
with  a  pretty  bouquet  at  the  chief's  table ;  one  hun- 
dred and  eighty  felt  hurt,  and  said,  "I  don't  care 
about  the  captain's  table,  but  I  had  just  as  lief  be 
there  as  not."  Often  on  board  ship  people  are  more 
*'  at  sea"  than  they  expect  to  be. 

Annabel  heard  a  bell.  What,  dinner  already  !  Was 
it  possible  ?  Had  she,  then,  been  musing  so  long  ? 
She  hastily  started,  and  made  for  the  companion-way. 
As  she  did  so  her  head  swam.  The  ship  gave  a  lurch  ; 
she  went  with  the  ship.  Her  gait  was  unsteady,  her 
mind  was  in  chaos,  her  ears  were  filled  with  a  roaring 
noise,  and  her  knees  knocked  together.  Her  mouth 
was  drawn.  She  tried  to  utter  a  sound  ;  none  came. 
Her  eyes  blinked,  her  face  commenced  to  burn,  and  a 
terrible  faintness  came  over  her.  Was  she  dying? 
Could  this  be  death  ?     No. 

Then  a  voice  which  she  thought  she  had  heard  be- 
fore said,  "  Take  her  to  the  state-room.  Poor  thing  ! 
I  guess  she's  sea-sick." 


CHAPTER   III. 

The  next  morning  the  weather  was  still  fine.  They 
were  well  out  at  sea.  The  deck  was  crowded  with 
chairs,  yet  nevertheless  many  blooming  faces  of  the 
previous  day  now  wore  through  the  regulation  gauze 
veil  a  look  of  helpless  woe,  suggestive  that  their  re- 
spective owners  were  feeling  *'a  little  under  the  wea- 
ther." Each  lap  held  a  paper-bound  novel,  each  hand 
a  bottle  of  "inexhaustible." 

A  little  apart  from  the  rest  sat  what  looked  like  a 
bundle  of  wraps.  A  pale  face  gazed  out  upon  the 
scene,  and  the  future  opera-singer  looked  as  much  like 
her  fellow-passengers  as  one  sea-sick  female  looks  like 
another.  This  distinct  malady  is  no  respecter  of  per- 
sons, for  everybody  who  is  ill  has  the  glazed  eye,  gray 
skin,  and  lack-lustre  air  peculiar  to  mal  de  mer. 

Annabel  raised  her  eyes  just  in  time  to  catch  a 
friendly  glance.  Her  acquaintance  of  the  day  before 
was  standing  close  by,  looking  compassionately  at  her, 
and  upon  the  point  of  speaking.  She  would  have 
blushed,  but  it  was  impossible.  Her  skin  was  as 
tightly  drawn  as  the  parchment  on  a  drum. 

''  Well,  how  do  you  feel  ?  Better  than  yesterday, 
I  hope.  I  don't  understand  how  any  one  can  be  sea- 
sick this  weather.     The  ocean  is  like  a  mill-pond." 

She  smiled  faintly.  "  I  am  half  ashamed  of  myself, 
but — but  I  have  been  awfully  ill." 


Stage-Struck.  :j3 

"Come  and  try  a  walk  on  the  hurricane-deck." 

"  Me  ?  I  can  scarcely  stand.  The  deck- steward 
brought  me  here." 

"  Try." 

"  But—" 

By  this  time  he  had  deliberately  unpacked  her  from 
the  chair.  Evidently  he  was  a  man  unaccustomed 
to  take  "  no"  for  an  answer.  There  was  a  horrid 
cheerfulness  in  his  voice  which  made  her  shudder. 

Why  should  he  enjoy  such  rude  health,  while  she 
was  ill  ?  And  yet  she  could  scarcely  feel  angry.  She 
was  on  the  point  of  protesting,  when  the  recollection 
of  yesterday  flashed  over  her. 

She  was  undoubtedly  ill,  but  she  had  life  enough 
left  to  allow  her  to  inquire  into  his  strange  way  of 
parting  from  her  when  she  had  spoken  about  music. 
She  was  not  curious,  but  she  would  like  to  know  what 
his  reasons  were. 

He  smiled  encouragingly.  "  There,  now  !  I  knew 
you  could  get  up  if  you  tried.  There  is  nothing  like 
trying.  You  who  have  courage  to  become  an  opera- 
singer  ought  not  to  give  up  to  this.  There  !  How  do 
you  feel  ?" 

Her  strength  was  not  herculean,  but  she  tried  to 
appear  very  brave.  She  smiled  as  she  accepted  his 
arm,  and  to  her  amazement  walked  with  tolerable 
firmness.  The  sea-air  had  already  revived  her.  They 
found  a  quiet  corner  on  the  lee  side  ;  there  was 
scarcely  a  breeze.  Annabel  decided  not  to  try  the 
upper  deck.  She  had  not  yet  got  her  sea-legs,  and 
trembled  at  the  thought  of  scaling  the  very  narrow 
iron  ladder,     Her  sturdy  companion  seemed  ready  to 


34  Stage-Struck, 

humor  her  slightest  wish,  and  no  more  mention  was 
made  of  upper  decks. 

After  one  or  two  turns,  they  decided  to  sit  down. 
She  was  not  exactly  sea- sick,  but  felt  queer  ;  besides, 
she  could  talk  better  when  not  walking.  She  scarcely 
knew  how  to  broach  her  subject.  It  was  no  slight 
matter  to  ask  a  man  what  he  had  meant  when  possibly 
he  had  meant  nothing  ;  but  she  must  know.  Looking 
up  into  his  face  with  childish  simplicity,  she  said, 

"  Why  did  you  say  '  another  one '  yesterday  ?  You 
know  when — the  time  I  spoke  about  being  an  opera- 
singer." 

He  looked  half  displeased.     "  Must  I  tell  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Because — because  I  felt  sorry  for  you." 

"Thanks.     I  don't  need  any  one's  pity." 

"  You  think  you  don't." 

"  I  know  that  I  don't." 

"  Shall  I  prove  to  you  that  you  do  ?" 

"  If  you  can." 

He  looked  sadly  at  her.  "  I  cannot  tell  you  now — 
that  is  to  say,  I  do  not  think  that  I  ought  to  tell  you. 
Perhaps,  when  we  become  better  acquainted,  I  may. 
In  the  mean  time,  tell  me  why  you  wish  to  become  a 
public  singer.  There  are  heaps  of  them,  but  you  look 
too  young  and  too  delicate." 

"  I  am  very  strong,"  she  said,  craning  her  slim  neck, 
"You  must  not  judge  my  strength  by  my  outward  ap- 
pearance." 

"  Answer  me  first  three  or  four  questions,  and  I  shall 
see  how  much  you  need  any  one's  pity." 

She  hesitated.     He  saw  her  hesitation. 


Stage-Struck.  35 

**  You  mustn't  mind  me  ;  I  am  old  enough  to  be  your 
father,  and  I  have  known  lots  of  girls  who  sang,  also 
one  who  might  have  been  celebrated.  It's  all  very- 
well  to  start  out  saying,  '  I  want  to  be  an  opera- 
singer,'  but  have  you  the  first  qualification  towards 
ever  becoming  one  ?" 

She  was  interested.  Why  should  she  not  converse 
with  this  very  cheery  man,  who  was  old  enough  to  be 
her  father  ?  He  seemed  to  know  about  music,  too, 
and  he  had  ideas  about  "  first  qualifications."  She 
would  answer  him  at  once. 

"  I  think  I  have.     You  mean  voice.     My — " 

*'No  ;  I  don't  mean  voice.  That  is  very  necessary  ; 
but  the  first  thing  to  be  thought  of  is  health.  Have 
you  a  good  digestion  ?" 

"Sir!     Mr.—!" 

"Why,  certainly.  I  had  forgotten  to  give  you  my 
card.  My  name  is  Randolph,  and  I  come  from  *  Ole 
Virginny  State.' "  He  smiled  pleasantly.  "  And 
yours  ?" 

She  replied  somewhat  stiffly,  "  Annabel  Almont." 

"  Well,  Miss  Annabel,  I  meant  what  I  said.  Can 
you  digest  tenpenny  nails  ?  In  other  words,  have  you 
a  good  sound  body  ?  and  do  you  eat  lots  while  you 
are  running  this  musical  business  ?  If  not,  you  cer- 
tainly can  never  expect  to  be  a  singer." 

"  Mr.  Randolph,  I  cannot  say  that  I  can  digest  nails, 
or  that  I  have  very  good  health  at  present,  but  I  have 
a  wonderful  constitution.  Real  wear  and  tear.  Why, 
I  can  nerve  myself  up  to  do  anything,  and  even  if  I 
don't  eat  much,  I  take  the  rest  out  in  singing,  and  I 
never  get  tired — that  is  to  say,  very  tired." 


36  Stage-Struck, 

"  Humph  !     May  I  ask  another  question  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  No.  On  second  thoughts,  I  will  tell  you  what  is 
requisite  to  become  an  artist :  Health,  money,  perse- 
verance, hard  work,  good  masters,  and — and  a  voice. 
Have  you  all  of  these  ?" 

"  Perhaps  a  little  of  each  ;  and  I  am  going  to  work 
very  hard." 

"  Hum  !  Kill  yourself  in  no  time,  I  suppose.  But — 
have  you  ever  sung  in  public  ?" 

"  Oh  yes  ;  at  plenty  of  concerts,  and  in  a  church- 
choir—" 

He  groaned — groaned  audibly  ;  then  supported  his 
head  with  his  hand. 

She  looked  up.     "  Don't  you  like  choir-singers  ?" 

"  Well,  I  can't  say  that  I  hanker  after  them.  How- 
ever, you  may  not  be  thoroughly  saturated  with  it 
yet.     Go  on." 

"  Every  one  thinks  that  my  voice  has  great  promise  ; 
besides,  I  compose  some  things,  and — and — " 

"  Play  a  little,  too,  no  doubt." 

"  How  funny  you  are  !  Of  course,  I  play  a  little; 
not  'Warblings  at  Eve,'  or  'Falling  Leaves,'  but 
Mozart,  Chopin,  and — " 

"  A  tarentella  or  two  ?"  with  a  grimace. 

His  accent  was  peculiar,  like  that  of  many  from 
the  Southern  States.  Still,  she  decidedly  liked  him. 
What  matter  if  he  were  quizzical  ?  his  meaning  was 
all  right. 

"Yes;  now  and  then  a  tarentella,"  she  answered. 
"But  I  intend  giving  up  instrumental  music.  I  must 
devote  all  my  attention  to  my  voice;  besides,  I  must 


Stage-Struck.  37 

learn  the  different  languages,  study  dramatic  action,  go 
to  the  opera  nearly  every  night,  learn  how  to  Solfege 
and  phrase  in  the  Italian  fashion,  sing  scales  every 
day,  then  prepare  for  a  debut.  I  have  already  learnt 
Faust,  Martha,  Rigoletto,  Trovatore,  Valentine  in  the 
Huguenots,  Traviata,  Lucia,  with  the  famous  flute 
accompaniment  for  the  mad   scene,   Sonnambula — " 

"  Stop,  stop!  don't  tell  me  any  more.  I  don't 
wonder  you  are  pale,  cramming  a  young  head  with 
all  that.     May  I  inquire  your  age  ?" 

"Mr.  Randolph,  I  think  that  you  may;  also,  if  it 
would  interest  you  to  hear  it,  I  can  tell  you  some  of 
my  life.  I  am  just  eighteen.  My  father  has  been  ill, 
and  has  lost  all  his  money.  A  year  ago  my  church 
gave  me  a  purse  to  go  to  Europe.  I  am  at  last  go- 
ing there  to  complete  my  musical  education;  my 
mother  will  follow  me  shortly.  In  about  two  years  I 
shall  have  finished  my  studies,  when  I  can  return 
home,  earning  many  thousands  of  dollars,  and  make 
every  one  of  my  family  happy.  I  used  my  purse  up  in 
New  York,  but  an  uncle  has  been  very  kind.  He  has 
given  my  mother  a  sum  of  money  which  ought  to  be 
quite  enough  to  defray  all  our  expenses  whilst  we  are 
away.  I  am  going  to  Italy  to  study,  because  one 
can  live  there  for  nothing." 

"For  nothing?" 

"  Oh  yes.  Italy  is  dirt-cheap,  and  all  of  the  best 
masters  are  there.  We  stop  in  London  a  little,  in 
Paris  a  little,  then  go  on  to  Milan.  I  shall  begin 
work  at  once.  It  seems  as  though  I  could  hardly 
wait  till  we  get  to  Italy,  but  I  must;  at  least  until 
mother  joins  me.     She  is  coming  from  Canada.     My 


38  Stage-Struck. 

uncle  lives  in  Canada.  He  has  one  child — my  cousin, 
of  course — but,  strange  to  say,  she  hasn't  a  jot  of 
music  in  her  whole  composition.     A  pity,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  I  should  say  that  it  was  a  blessing." 

"Mr.  Randolph!" 

"  One  in  the  family  is  enough.  The  mania  seems 
to  have  broken  out  on  you  like  the  measles.  No;  to 
tell  the  truth,  I  am  no  believer  in  girls  going  to  Eu- 
rope to  prepare  for  the  stage." 

She  almost  lost  her  patience,  but  would  not  give 
up.  She  spread  her  slim  hands  on  her  lap,  and  said, 
"  Mr.  Randolph,  would  you  not  like  to  hear  my  voice 
before  telling  me  what  I  cannot  do  ?"  She  spoke  with 
soft  accents. 

"My  dear  child,  don't  ask  me  to  hear  any  one's 
voice.  I  am  sorry  that  you  or  any  young  girl  should 
go  so  far  away  on  a  mission  which  smiles  in  prospect, 
yet  often  brings  only  bitter  disappointment.  In  real- 
ity, there  is  too  much  of  this  emptying  of  America  of 
young  voices  and  hearts.  Without  ever  having  gone 
beyond  the  first  rudiments  of  music,  without  money 
and  without  brains,  they  dash  off  to  Europe  to  study 
for  the  stage,  and  impoverish  family,  friends,  and 
relations.  I  believe  in  every  girl  trying  her  level 
best,  but  I  should  like  more  promise  at  home,  that 
they  may  become  something  great  before  going  so 
far  away.  It's  all  well  enough  to  say  Til  work;'  it 
is  so  difficult  to  change  old  habits.  You  meet  new 
people;  you  have  to  adapt  yourself  to  new  customs 
and  to  learn  new  tongues.  Say  that  you  go  to  Europe 
for  general  culture.  That  would  be  very  good;  but 
do  not  set  your  heart  on^hat  many  circumstances 


Stage-Struck,  39 

may  alter.  The  conditions  of  life  are  not  always  the 
same  in  a  foreign  land — " 

"  Why  do  you  discourage  me  ?"  she  interrupted, 
looking  at  him  indignantly. 

He  glanced  kindly  at  her,  and  replied,  "  I  do  not 
want  wholly  to  discourage  you,  but  you  must  realize 
that  there  are  two  sides  to  a  question,  even  when  you 
hear  but  one.  So  it  is  with  this  music  business. 
You  young  things  only  see  the  gold  and  glitter  of  the 
stage;  hear  reports  of  certain  stars  making  their 
thousands  nightly;  and  you  ignore  that,  for  every  one 
who  succeeds,  thousands  fail.  A  singing-master  has 
hundreds  of  pupils;  all  more  or  less  talented.  He 
will  never  tell  you  of  those  who  have  made  a  ship- 
wreck in  the  struggle,  but  always  of  the  one  who 
has  sailed  triumphantly  into  port.  When  one  thinks 
of  the  number  who  study  under  the  most  celebrated 
masters,  in  comparison  with  the  few  who  really  suc- 
ceed, the  percentage  is  so  small  that  it  is  infinitesimal. 
A  master  should  be  ashamed  to  merely  say,  *  So-and- 
so  is  my  pupil  ;  I  made  him;  I  made  her.*  Let  him 
also  tell  his  admirers  of  those  whom  he  did  not  make, 
who  worked  perhaps  as  hard.  Pupils  should  know 
that  failure  is  infinitely  more  probable  than  success. 
If  they  still  keep  on  spending  the  best  years  of  their 
lives  in  search  of  fame  and  fortune,  although  they 
know  at  the  outset  what  lies  before  them,  so  much  the 
more  honor  when  they  do  succeed.  Their  courage,  ener- 
gy, and  perseverance  will  have  commanded  success." 

"You  seem  to  know  a  great  deal  about  it." 

"  Miss  Annabel,  I  have  seen  little  of  you,  but  I  have 
seen  more  of  this  singing  business  than  any  one  to 


40  Stage-Struck. 

look  at  me  would  imagine.  _  am  the  last  in  the 
world  to  predict  failure  to  any  one  starting  out  in 
life.  All  professions  are  more  or  less  arduous,  more 
or  less  precarious.  A  musical  career  is  worse  than 
that;  it  is  perilous.  In  any  other  trade  one  can  get 
an  idea  of  ultimate  results.  In  music —  Well,  one 
may  have  everything  in  one's  favor,  with  beauty 
thrown  in" — he  half-glanced  at  her — "  study  for 
years,  spend  money,  and  then  fail.  Do  it;  only  be 
prepared  for  the  other  side  of  the  medal." 

"  I  would  rather  study  ten  years  and  fail  in  the  end 
than  wait  as  many,  always  thinking  what  I  might  have 
done  had  I  only  tried.  At  least,  I  shall  have  the  con- 
solation of  knowing  that  I  have  done  my  share  to- 
wards success,  and  I  shall  never  feel  regret.  Failure 
would  be  misery — I  don't  deny  it;  but —  I  will  take 
my  chances;  I  cannot  fail." 

"Bravely  said,  my  child;  bravely  said.  That  is  the 
right  way  to  look  -at  it.  Do  your  best,  and  don't 
break  your  heart  if  you  are  not  Nilsson  or  Patti  in  a 
day,  and  if  you  finish  by  being — nobody.  Thank  your 
stars  if  health,  voice,  and  friends  don't  desert  you  in 
the  long-run.  Learn  to  chatter  in  all  tongues  like  a 
magpie,  and  to  warble  like  a  mocking-bird;  then 
come  back  to  America,  and  let  those  two  bright  eyes 
shine  in  some  good  man's  home  and  make  him  happy. 
That's  my  advice." 

"Good  advice,  Mr,  Randolph;  but  I  can't  possibly 
take  it."  Then  she  laughed,  and  continued  :  "  In  spite 
of  all  you  have  said,  I  have  marked  out  my  course  in 
life,  and  must  follow  it.  Don't  you  know  that  Ameri- 
cans cannot  even  spell  the  viovd  failure  ?    Are  you  not 


Stage-Struck.  41 

ashamed  of  having  tried  so  hard  to  discourage  me  at 
the  outset  ?" 

**  No;  you  will  remember  my  words  when  you  least 
expect  to.  But  for  the  present  we  will  drop  the  sub- 
ject; if  you  like,  for  ever." 

"  For  evert  No,  indeed.  I  shall  make  you  tell  me 
all  about  the  girl  you  mentioned,  who  might  have — " 

His  face  clouded  over.  He  answered  her  with 
almost  painful  deliberation. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  now.  Some  other  time.  In 
Europe,  perhaps,  when  you  have  become  a  celebrity, 
or—" 

"  Or  a  failure  ?" 

"  Yes,  or  a  failure.  But  we  must  not  anticipate 
that." 

"  Is  the  story  gay  or  sad;  truth  or  fiction  ?" 

^*  Sad,  and  but  too  true.  Now,  don't  look  at  me 
in  that  beseeching  way.  Curiosity  always  tempts 
me,  but  this  time  I  shall  take  no  notice.  I  sha'nt  tell, 
so  don't  ask  questions.     Let  us  change  the  subject." 

"  Do  you  like  the  sea  ?" 

"Yes  and  no." 

"How  many  times  have  you  crossed  the  Atlantic  ?" 

"  Fifty  or  more." 

"  Dear  me!     Are  you  never  sea-sick  ?" 
.    "Sometimes;  but  that  reminds  me.     How  are  you 
now  ?     All  right  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed.     Since  you  spoke  of  music — " 

"Yes — well,  we  will  drop  that,  please;  besides,  here 
comes  the  captain.  My  time's  up,  I  suppose. 
Aurevoiry 

"No;  he  is  not  coming  this  woyy'  she  answered. 


42  Stage-Struck. 

At  that  very  moment  the  gallant  commander 
stopped  to  speak  with  a  knot  of  Americans,  who  were 
standing  as  nonchalantly  as  if  on  shore.  Talking, 
smoking,  and  blowing  faint  rings  of  cloud-like  vapor 
into  the  already  cloudy  sky,  they  looked  as  much  at 
home  as  if  sauntering  down  Broadway,  or  standing 
on  the  steps  of  their  clubs.  But  then  men  are  at 
home  anywhere.     It  is  a  peculiarity  of  the  sex. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

In  spite  of  Annabel's  surmise,  the  captain  suddenly- 
turned  round  and  came  towards  them.  He  nodded 
to  Mr.  Randolph,  and  then  addressed  the  lady. 

"I  am  sure  this  must  be  Miss  Almont?" 

She  bowed  affably. 

"  You  have  been  specially  placed  under  my  care, 
and  it  will  be  my  pleasure  as  well  as  duty  to  look 
after  you.  By  the  way,  you  did  not  appear  at  dinner 
last  night.     Not  sea-sick,  I  hope,  with  this  weather  ?" 

She  was  almost  ashamed  to  confess  it,  but  she  had 
been  a  little — well,  just  a  little  sea-sick. 

Both  men  laughed.     Then  the  captain  said, 

"We  cannot  allow  any  more  of  that.  We'll  make  a 
fine  sailor  of  you  in  no  time;  but  you  must  keep  on 
deck  every  day  and  walk  about  until  you  are  quite 
strong,  and  do  not  fail  to  come  to  table.  Once  you 
get  your  sea-legs  on,  you'll  become  so  used  to  this 
salt  water  that — " 

"  That  I  shall  be  sorry  to  leave  the  ship.' 

"  I  hope  so;  I  hope  so."  It  is  etiquette  always  to 
speak  with  regret  at  leaving  a  ship  to  its  commander; 
but  the  expression  is  generally  nearer  the  truth  on 
the  last  day  than  on  the  first. 

Captain  Rivers  was  as  fine  a  man  as  ever  trod  the 
deck  of  an  ocean  steamer.  When  a  little  boy,  a 
Yorkshire  bight,  as  he  often  called  himself,  he  had 


44  Stage-Struck. 

run  away  to  sea;  and,  some  years  later,  had  the  proud 
satisfaction  of  returning  to  his  native  town  master  of 
the  vessel  which  had  borne  him  away  to  seek  his  for- 
tune. Now  he  commanded  the  good  steamer  Arigona^ 
about  the  fleetest  and  finest  plying  between  New 
York  and  Liverpool.  He  was  considered  one  of  the 
most  careful  and  experienced  of  officers.  His  ways 
were  sympathetic,  and  his  voice  just  deep  enough  to 
show  a  slight  suspicion  of  having  had  many  a  previ- 
ous discussion  with  the  elements.  He  stood  six  feet 
in  his  stockings.  His  blue  eyes  continually  smiled 
out  from  beneath  bushy  dark  brows;  while  a  heavy, 
close-cut  beard  of  salt-and-pepper  color  compactly 
hid  the  lower  part  of  his  face.  He  was  an  able  officer 
and  a  cheery  man.  Everybody  liked  Captain  Rivers, 
and  the  ladies  all  fell  in  love  with  him  at  once. 

The  weather  continued  fine;  day  succeeded  day, 
being  only  diversified  by  the  usual  amusements  of  the 
little  floating  world.  Occasionally  a  full-rigged  vessel 
sailed  gayly  by,  which  always  elicited  the  remark  from 
the  commander  that  "the  prettiest  sights  in  the  world 
are  a  full-rigged  sailing-ship  and  a  handsome  woman." 
Ungallantly,  he  put  the  ship  first. 

When  th«  cry  "A  sail!"  is  heard,  there  is  a  general 
stampede;  new  faces  are  discovered,  field-  and  opera- 
glasses  are  brought  into  requisition,  and  the  excite- 
ment is  general.*  A  day  at  sea  is  not  considered  lost 
when  any  ship  is  seen,  and  it  is  wild  dissipation  when 
one  is  "spoken;"  but  one  rarely  sees  two  ocean 
steamers  on  consecutive  days. 

Annabel  appeared  the  third  day  at  dinner,  showing 
no   traces   of   indisposition.     After   soup  she  looked 


Stage-Struck.  45 

about,  and,  to  her  pleasure,  discovered  Mr.  Randolph. 
He  was  already  an  old  friend.  There  were  some  dis- 
tinguished people  at  the  captain's  table,  as  there  al- 
ways are:  one  a  fine  military  man,  called  Major  Alex- 
ander; another  a  famous  barrister,  who  had  oft 
wheedled  jurymen  in  many  a  celebrated  trial — in  fact, 
none  other  than  the  well-known  Sergeant  Scotpress. 
There  was  a  clever  young  litterateur,  who  spoke  on 
every  subject,  including  Mormonism;  and,  last  but 
not  least,  there  were  a  couple  who  excited  curiosity, 
if  not  distrust. 

Annabel  was  soon  at  home  with  all,  and  chatting 
cheerily.  She  discovered  that  the  lawyer  was  de- 
cidedly English;  that  the  young  litterateur,  a  Mr. 
Stuart,  was  enthusiastic  as  he  talked  of  the  Salt  Lake 
gods  and  goddesses  ofMormondom;  and  that  the  ma- 
jor, who  spoke  many  languages,  had  a  "as  So-and-so 
says"  always  apropos  to  every  remark.  Sometimes  it 
would  be  Heine,  sometimes  Shakespeare,  sometimes 
Byron,  sometimes  Dante;  and  then,  on  better  acquaint- 
ance, she  noticed  that  he  not  unfrequently  "  sprung  a 
little  Latin  on  them  when  no  one  was  looking,"  to 
quote  Mr.  Randolph's  expression. 

At  the  farther  end  of  the  table  was  a  veritable  Cap- 
tain Cuttle.  He  was  deaf  but,  alas!  not  mute.  He 
had  been  an  officer  in  the  British  navy,  had  taken 
part  in  the  Crimean  war,  and,  through  standing  too 
near  the  guns  when  discharged,  his  ear-drums  had 
been  shattered.  He  had  two  orphaned  nieces,  and,  in 
order  to  entertain  the  little  things,  he  used,  he  ex- 
plained, to  read  aloud  to  them,  which  accounted  for  the 
marvellous  way  he  had  preserved  the  power  of  speech. 


46  Stage-Struck. 

Like  most  deaf  people,  he  shouted  when  he  thought 
he  was  whispering,  and  thundered  when  supposed  to 
be  speaking  in  moderate  tones.  Usually,  in  the  midst 
of  the  pathetic  tale  of  some  other  passenger,  this 
marine  phenomenon  would  attempt  to  confide  his 
views  to  his  neighbor,  and  with  the  result  that  the 
innocent  started,  the  guilty  quaked,  and  conversation 
came  to  a  dead  stop,  while  all  the  glass  and  crockery 
in  the  saloon  began  to  ring  and  vibrate  as  though  it 
had  thundered. 

Although  absolutely  ignorant  of  the  full  effect  of 
his  voice,  he  could  not  ignore  the  fact  that  something 
now  and  then  disturbed  the  equanimity  of  his  fellow- 
passengers.  On  these  occasions,  with  a  calm  smile 
and  an  apologetic  Captain  Cuttle  sort  of  movement, 
he  would  say  to  his  neighbor, 

"  I  hope  I  don't  talk  too  low.  Of  course  you  hear 
me,  although  there  does  seem  a  racket  of  some  sort. 
And,"  he  would  sometimes  explain  further,  "I  try  to 
speak  with  a  full  voice,  so  as  not  to  lose  it.  I  must 
keep  up  my  practice.  I  think  that  I  manage  to  make 
myself  heard;  but  in  case  I  don't,  just  let  me  know." 

As  he  said  this  he  would  modestly  look  down,  each 
word  having  a  crescendo  tendency.  Before  the  end  of 
the  voyage,  he  became  a  universal  pet  on  board,  and 
some,  to  escape  from  his  thunder,  even  mastered  the 
deaf-and-dumb  alphabet. 


CHAPTER   V. 

The  days  passed,  and  the  weather  broke.  The 
clouds  banked  themselves  up,  it  began  to  blow,  and 
it  rained  hard.  The  passengers,  who  were  obliged  to 
stay  in  the  cabin,  began  to  know  each  other  as  if  they 
had  lived  together  for  years. 

One  who  has  never  been  at  sea  can  little  realize  the 
degree  of  intimacy  between  passengers  that  ocean 
travel  necessitates,  especially  when  bad  weather 
comes  on.  Happily,  the  present  company  was  nume- 
rous, and  among  them  were  many  charming  people. 

At  sea,  fortunately,  most  people  try  to  make  them- 
selves agreeable.  There  were  card-parties  after  dinner, 
and  one  night  there  was  a  great  benefit  entertainment 
for  the  Seamen's  Orphan  Institution.  By  the  way, 
they  always  have  benefits  ;  those  orphans  ought  to 
have  a  good  deal  of  money  in  the  bank. 

Just  as  the  Arigona  was  nearing  the  shores  of 
"  Merrie  England,"  the  weather  became  terrible — so 
bad  that  the  captain  never  left  his  bridge  for  forty- 
eight  hours,  and  the  passengers  began  to  long  for 
land.  The  ship  was  in  much  peril.  They  were  near 
a  lee  shore,  to  judge  from  soundings,  but  it  was  im- 
possible to  say  where.  Most  of  the  passengers  being 
old  sailors,  and  every  one  having  perfect  confidence 
in  the  captain,  little  alarm,  however,  was  felt. 

The  companion-way  of  the  Arigona  was  one  of  the 
most  delightful  parts  of  the  ship,  and  there  discussions 


48  Stage-Struck. 

always  ran  high.  Annabel  talked  over  every  subject 
on  earth  with  Major  Alexander,  except  music.  Al- 
though a  perfectly  refined  and  cultured  gentleman, 
he  did  not  seem  to  her  a  musical  man;  she  could  not 
understand  it. 

She  was  interested  in  the  ship,  and  took  a  lesson  in 
navigation.  She  made  notes  about  foremasts,  main- 
masts, and  mizzens;  learned  the  meaning  of  a  jigger  ; 
discovered  the  position  of  the  various  sails,  their 
names  ;  and,  in  fact,  the  whole  ship's  anatomy  was 
soon  on  her  brain's  small  dissecting-table.  What 
she  learned  one  day  she  forgot  the  next,  so  that  the 
charm  of  novelty  never  wore  off. 

In  the  evening  she  listened  to  the  pool-making,  the 
betting  on  the  run,  the  auction  of  numbers,  and  once 
went  so  far  as  to  buy  three  hundred  and  thirty-three 
for  seven  shillings.  It  might  win,  and  there  was  luck 
in  odd  numbers. 

There  was  chess  in  the  afternoon,  and  there  was 
whist  in  the  evening.  She  tried  a  rubber  once  or 
twice,  and  was  told  that  she  had  spoiled  the  game  by 
her  bad  play.  She  could  not  see  that  she  had  been 
very  guilty,  though  she  had  done  things  which  the 
fond  whist-player  never  pardons.  For  instance,  she 
had  not  followed  suit ;  and  when  she  was  Scotpress's 
partner,  she  had  ignored  that  great  lawyer's  lead.  She 
also  had  trumped  his  ace  a  few  times,  and  roused  his 
ire  by  refusing  his  "  call  for  trumps."  She  did  not 
quite  know  what  this  meant,  except  that  the  third 
hand  played  a  high  trump  and  then  lectured  her  for 
not  leading  one. 

She  began  to  feel  uneasy,  as  she  had  thought  whist 


Stage-Struck.  49 

a  game  of  amusement ;  on  the  contrary,  no  one  was 
allowed  to  speak.  They  made  a  serious  business  of 
playing  ;  and  when  her  opponent,  who  had  not  dealt, 
coolly  laid  an  ace  on  the  table,  her  heart  died  within 
her.  This  was  evidently  a  conspiracy,  and  the  great 
lawyer  and  her  opponent  were  whist-fiends.  She 
struggled  on,  and  finally  felt  that  the  game  was  any- 
thing but  an  entertaining  one. 

She  worked  like  a  galley-slave — but,  then,  most 
ladies  do  who  play  whist.  Still,  she  tried  to  look 
cheerful,  and  continued  without  compunction  to  take 
her  partner's  ace,  lead  the  wrong  suit,  and  throw 
away  cards  when  she  should  have  trumped. 

The  blank  look  of  horror  of  the  sergeant,  after  he 
had  been  a  second  time  her  partner,  was  appalling. 
A  ''revoke"  nearly  broke  his  heart.  "You  may.  Miss 
Almont,"  he  said,  as  he  rose  from  the  table,  "become 
a  famous  prima  donna,  but  you'll  never  be  anything 
but  an  infamous  whist-player." 

She  felt  like  a  criminal.  Mr.  Randolph  tried  to 
cheer  her  up,  but  his  words  were  less  consoling  than 
his  manner. 

"  When  I  want  fun,  I  never  play  whist.  It's  a  lasting 
disgrace  to  play  a  bad  game.  The  whist-fiend  never 
forgets  it.  He  lays  it  up  against  you,  and,  no  matter 
how  much  he  may  meet  or  know  or  like  you  in  after- 
life, he  always  remembers  that  one  rubber,  and  says, 
*  Yes,  he's  a  nice  man,  but — he  plays  a  bad  game  of 
whist.'" 

The  ladies  had  a  fine  cabin,  and  congregated  there 
in  force.  Mrs.  John  Dawson,  who  was  Annabel's  right 
at  table,  usually  entertained  the  company  with  the 
gossip  of  the  day. 


50  Stage-Struck. 

She  retailed  all  the  saloon  talk — knew  how  many 
families  there  were  aboard,  how  they  had  made  their 
money,  and  how  much  they  had  to  spend  in  Europe  ; 
and  the  last  day,  about  lo  a.m.,  she  announced  "that 
there  was  a  man  dead  in  the  steerage." 

The  story  which  the  steward  told  them  was  a 
touching  one.  The  man  had  been  ill  but  a  short 
time,  and  only  that  morning  he  had  felt  better. 

"  You  see,  about  seven  bells  this  morning  he  called 
me,  and  I  gave  him  some  soup.  He  looked  quite 
bright,  and  said  he  would  be  thankful  to  get  home. 
*  My  wife,'  says  he,  *  'ill  be  a-waitin'  at  the  dock  when 
we  git  into  Liverpool.  Won't  she  be  glad  to  see  me  ! 
I've  been  to  America  for  two  years,  and  have  worked 
myself  nigh  unto  death  in  the  bargain,  so  as  to  bring 
home  some  money  for  her  and  the  little  ones.  'Tain't 
much,  but  it's  all  here.  I  can  just  see  her  a-waitin' 
for  me,  and  I  know  once  I'm  home  I'll  be  as  sound  as 
possible.'  Then  he  spoke  of  the  weather,  and  I  told 
him  'twas  clearin'  up.  He  coughed  feebly  and  said, 
'Thank  Heaven  !  This  has  been  a  sorry  time  to  me, 
flat  on  my  back  and  the  storm  a-ragin'.'  Then  he 
asked  me  to  put  his  head  a  little  higher,  which  I  did. 
Poor  man,  he  looked  quite  smiling  and  comfortable, 
so  I  turned  away.  In  a  few  minutes,  while  I  was 
workin'  round  the  cabin,  I  heard  a  gurgling  sound,  a 
few  short  gasps,  and  some  mumbled  words  like  'wife  ' 
and  'children;'  then  he  just  let  his  head  drop  on  his 
breast  like  a  baby.  I  rushed  up  to  him,  but  he  had 
passed  in  his  checks,  poor  fellow,  and  he'll  be  buried 
this  afternoon  at  five.  Hard  lines,  mum,  on  a  man 
who  was  as  lively  as  a  cricket  at  ten  this  mornin',  to 
be  dead  and  thrown  into  the  sea  afore  sunset." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Immediately  on  the  arrival  of  the  steamer  at  the 
docks,  a  bustling  American  boarded  her,  with  the  re- 
mark, "  I  am  looking  for  a  young  lady  who  has  been 
placed  in  my  charge  to  London.  Tall,  fair — name 
Almont." 

"Almont?"  said  a  clear  voice,  accompanied  by  a 
bright  smile  ;  "  why,  I  am  Annabel  Almont." 

"Miss  Almont,  how  do  you  do?"  and  the  stranger 
vigorously  shook  her  hand.  "Glad  to  see  you.  I  am 
Jameson — Captain  Jameson,  here  to  look  after  all 
Americans,  and  especially  after  you.  Had  a  good 
trip  ?  Of  course  you  had.  Lord  bless  me,  I  envy  one 
who  crosses  the  Atlantic  in  the  Arigona.  I  tell  you 
she's  a  stunner,  and  the  best  sea-ship  afloat.  Any 
boat  that  is  introduced  to  an  iceberg  only  to  bow  and 
knock  it  into  a  cocked  hat  is  good  enough  for  me. 
Fine  weather  all  of  the  time  ?  Bad  !  Dear  me  !  I 
am  surprised.  Fog  ?  Naturally,  off  the  banks.  No  ! 
— near  Liverpool  ?  You  don't  say  !  You're  slightly 
overdue.  Only  five  days  ;  but  Heavens  !  that's  noth- 
ing. We  thought  you  were  all  having' such  a  good 
time  that  you  didn't  want  to  come  ashore — in  fact, 
refused,  actually  refused,  to  leave  the  ship.  Passenger 
died  !  You  don't  say  !  Poor  devil  !  Dropped  him, 
of  course.     Ah  !  it's  a  nasty  thing — buried  at  sea.     I 


52  Stage-Struck, 

should  shiver.  One  of  the  steerage  ?  Oh  !  I  s'pose 
'twas  the  only  thing  to  do.  However,  it's  no  use  cry- 
ing. No  other  sick  aboard,  I  suppose  ?  That's  good. 
Going  to  London  to-day  ?  Well,  you're  just  in  time 
for  the  1 1. 20,  and  I  can  stow  you  away  in  one  of  Pull- 
man's best  cars.  Glad  to  land?  I'm  not  surprised. 
It  is  a  long  trip." 

How  long  the  ciieery,  loquacious  Jameson  would 
have  continued  these  outpourings,  history  saith  not. 
He  was  interrupted  by  arrivals,  each  of  whom  knew 
the  good-natured  American  and  had  a  "  Good-day" 
ready  for  him. 

Jameson  was  a  sort  of  institution  bustling  around 
like  a' whirlwind,  and  running  straight  away  from  the 
point  as  rapidly  as  quicksilver.  He  was  the  kind  of 
man  who  offers  to  do  anything  on  earth,  remembers 
and  accomplishes  perhaps  one  tenth  of  what  he  has 
offered,  and  consigns  the  rest  to  his  book  of  promises. 
On  the  next  meeting  he  receives  reproaches  for  his 
forgetfulness  with  so  bland  a  smile  that  he  disarms 
all  anger.  Then  he  performs  some  spontaneous  ser- 
vice, perhaps  valueless  in  itself,  but  executed  with 
such  extraordinary  aplomb  and  celerity  that  one  feels 
one's  self  his  debtor  for  life. 

In  a  short  time  Annabel  arrived  at  the  station.  The 
captain's  airy  manner  had  so  much  of  contagion  in  it 
that  all  who  were  gathered  around  him  soon  felt  the 
effect  of  his  sunshiny  presence.  He  made  two  new 
friends  on  the  spot.  He  gave  secret  instructions  to 
the  Pullman-car  porter  regarding  every  passenger,  so 
that  each  thought  himself  the  special  object  of  atten- 
tion.    In  a  few  moments  he  was  quite  at  Annabel's 


Stage-Struck.  53 

service.  Her  luggage  was  found,  and  speedily  booked 
for  London,  and  she  and  her  fellow-passengers  were 
soon  whirling  on  towards  the  great  city. 

Major  Alexander  and  Mr.  Randolph  were  seated 
near  her,  and  the  party  was  completed  by  the  Daw- 
sons,  their  late  travelling  companions  on  the  Arigona. 

England  was  well  known  to  all  except  Annabel. 
She  was  startled  from  a  half- reverie  by  the  voice  of 
Captain  Jameson. 

"  Well,  Miss  A.,  what  do  you  think  of  this  ?  How 
does  it  compare  with  America?     Isn't  it  just  lovely?" 

She  smiled.  "  Compare  ?  It  compares  with  Amer- 
ica as  green  trees  compare  with  other  green  trees,  and 
grass  with  other  grass.  This  is  so  cultivated  that  it 
seems  to  me  like  going  through  a  series  of  magnificent 
private  grounds.  Nature  is  equally  beautiful  in  Amer- 
ica, perhaps  more  so  than  here,  but  it  is  more  savage." 

Jameson  laughed. 

"  Permit  me  to  get  a  word  in  here,"  said  Mr.  Ran- 
dolph. "  Scenery  is  scenery  the  world  over,  but  I 
won't  hear  America  called  'savage'  without  a  reason. 
All  this  is  good  enough,  but  .'tain't  a  patchin'  on  Cali- 
fornia, or  even  Virginia,  or,  for  the  matter  of  that, 
Pennsylvania." 

Annabel  spoke.  "  How  can  you  say  so  ?  Look  at 
those  hedges  !  See  how  beautifully  every  inch  of 
ground  is  cultivated  ;  and  those  flowers  growing  up 
against  the  bridges.  Why,  the  whole  of  the  landscape 
is  as  smooth  as  my  uncle's  lawn.  I  have  never  seen 
the  country  like  this  in  America." 

''You  are  right,"  responded  the  major;  "and  as 
my  friend  Milton  said  : 


54  Stage-Struck, 

"  'This  desert  soil  wants  not  her  hidden  lustre,  gems,  nor  gold; 
Nor  want  we  skill  nor  art  from  whence  to  raise  magnificence.' 

Grandeur  of  scenery,  picturesque  falls,  graceful  cas- 
cades, deep  ravines,  and  heathery  hills  are  well  known 
to  all  who  travel  in  the  United  States.  The  country 
is  too  new,  however,  to  admit  of  care  being  expended 
on  a  railroad.  Weeds,  brambles,  briers,  and  shrubs 
grow  in  savage  luxuriance  up  to  the  very  rails.  The 
grass  comes  up  in  patches,  vegetation  accumulates 
here,  there,  and  everywhere  in  a  wild  profusion  ;  but 
no  one  seems  to  want  a  civilized  landscape.  Rail- 
road kings  and  corporations  are  interested  in  cutting 
through  the  country  and  laying  tracks  for  the  purpose 
of  making  money.  Provided  that  their  railroad  does 
this,  they  do  not  care  what  it  looks  like.  Utility,  not 
adornment,  is  the  motto  of  an  American.  He  cannot 
see  any  reason  in  trimming  hedges,  making  symmetri- 
cal fences,  or  turning  wild  patches  of  grass  into  a 
lawn.  And  he  is  right.  Why  should  wild-flowers 
bloom  other  than  as  nature  intended  ?  Why  deck  a 
railroad  out  like  a  garden  ?  When  an  American  goes 
into  art-decoration,  he  sticks  to  his  own  private  prop- 
erty, and  does  not  waste  time  or  money  on  that  of  a 
corporation.  Demagogues  pretend  that  their  financial 
schemes  are  for  the  good  of  the  people,  but  this  is 
clap-trap.  They  have  no  sentiment,  and  it  would  be 
sentimental  to  think  of  cultivating  the  land  near  the 
railway-track,  when  no  one  but  the  world  in  general 
could  have  the  benefit  of  it." 

Mr.  Randolph  then  spoke.  "  People  ought  to  be 
thankful  to  be  carried  safely,  without  accident  to  life 
or  limb,  and  should  not  expect  to  have  a  flowery  pan- 


Stage-Struck.  55 

orama  provided  for  them  ;  they  can  get  that  here,  but 
we  haven't  time.  Of  course,  this  is  a  good  country  to 
stagnate  in,  and  Fm  very  fond  of  it ;  but  give  me  a 
little  more  go,  and  this  I  get  in  America." 

"Well,"  said  Captain  Jameson,  who  thought  it 
about  time,  as  he  mildly  expressed  it,  to  "dip  in  his 
oar,"  "I  suppose  I  represent  the  average  man  or  the 
average  American.  When  I  am  going  to  any  place  I 
just  rush  for  the  train,  get  into  my  seat,  and  my  mind 
runs  on  everything  like  a  whirlwind.  I  have  built 
three  or  four  railroads,  I  have  set  up  a  yacht,  I  have 
built  a  brown-stone  in  New  York,  I  have  drained  the 
Chicago  River  by  a  new  system,  I  have  been  to  Lead- 
ville  to  look  after  my  mines,  I  have  invented  a  patent 
fire-escape  to  just  float  like  a  cloud  from  a  tenth-story 
window,  I  have  made  a  million  in  Wall  Street — in 
fact,  I  spend  my  time  in  the  train  thinking  and 
scheming  just  as  any  honest  American  should.  Im- 
agine me  looking  out  of  windows  and  enjoying  my- 
self !  Why,  my  good  people,  I  haven't  time.  I  may 
see  the  thing,  take  it  all  in  at  a  glance,  but  the  next 
minute  I  couldn't  tell  whether  I'd  seen  grass  or  gravy, 
posies  or  potatoes.  Of  course  it's  lovely,  but  we 
wouldn't  feel  at  home  in  America  if  we  were  to  see 
nothing  but  this.  It's  too  tame  ;  it's  too  cut-and-dried  ; 
in  fact,  it's  too  civilized.  When  I  first  came  to  Eng- 
land I  vowed  I'd  never  live  here.  Why,  I  didn't  dare 
to  go  to  sleep  for  fear  some  night  I'd  walk  off  into 
the  water.  I  don't  mind  saying  that,  like  most  Ameri- 
cans, I  am  a  somnambulist,  and  this  place  is  too  small. 
Why,  America — America  !  there  you  can  roam  and 
roam — " 


56  Stage-Struck, 

"  It  strikes  me  that  one  can  roam  here  as  well ;  eh, 
captain  ?"  said  Annabel,  and  she  gave  a  malicious 
little  intonation  to  her  voice.  "  I  declare  I  shall  say- 
nothing  more  about  cultivation  or  the  refined  beauty 
of  the  English  landscape.  Now,  confess  that  you 
really  do  like  the  country." 

"Well,  well,"  he  admitted  testily,  "I  s'pose  I  do; 
but  I  can't  ever  place  any  country  bolt  upright  with 
America." 

The  conversation  momentarily  ceased.  The  train 
was  going  at  such  a  rate  that  things  were  positively 
spinning  in  the  drawing-room  car.  It  was  hot — so 
hot  that  air  was  at  a  premium. 

Some  imprudent  but  independent  soul  opened  a 
window.  Dust  came  in  with  the  faint  breath  of 
June  roses,  and  with  an  odor  of  hay  from  the  green 
meadows. 

In  a  moment  Mr.  Randolph  sneezed,  in  another  he 
coughed ;  then  he  moved  his  solid  body  somewhat 
petulantly,  but  too  late.  He  had  been  sitting  in  a 
draught,  and  draughts  are  nature's  Shylocks,  always 
wanting  their  pound  of  flesh.  He  coughed  again,  and 
discovered  to  his  astonished  travelling  companions  a 
well- developed  commencement  of  hay-fever. 

Jameson  laughed,  and  patted  him  on  the  shoulder, 
saying,  "  Heavenly  hope,  Randolph !  you'd  better 
trade  that  cold  off  for  a  horse.  A  June  cold's  a 
caution ;  I'd  hate  to  clutch  one  on — "  Another 
sneeze.  "  Who  opened  that  window  ?  My  friend, 
whoever  you  are,  you  are  too  previous." 

No  one  at  first  answered. 

In  a  case  of  this  kind  few  mortals  would  have  dared 


Stage-Struck.  57 

to  avow  themselves  culpable  ;  but  the  major  coolly 
announced  that  he  was  the  guilty  one — he  had  opened 
the  window. 

Jameson  shook  his  finger  at  him  with  a  kittenish 
gesture.  "We  might  have  known  who  did  it,"  said 
he,  gayly.  "Look  out,  or  there'll  be  a  procession 
towards  a  graveyard,  and  one  man's  name  less  on  my 
visiting-list." 

The  window  was  closed,  and  the  rest  of  the  journey 
passed  without  incident.  On  arriving  in  London, 
Annabel  felt  that  she  had  fairly  completed  the  first 
stage  of  her  long  trip. 


Oir 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Annabel  was  amazed  at  the  sight  of  London. 
What  magnitude,  what  magnificence,  what  solidity ; 
yet  how  gray  it  all  was!  The  sky  was  gray,  the 
houses  gray,  the  towers  gray,  and  a  heavy  pall  of 
something  impenetrable,  gray  and  darker  still,  hung 
like  a  bat  with  gigantic  wings  outstretched  over  the 
city. 

It  was  a  London  fog.  She  had  left  sunshine,  sum- 
mer air,  and  the  breath  of  green  fields  ten  minutes 
since ;  suddenly  she  had  been  transported  into  a 
world  where  even  the  sunshine  had  grown  into  som- 
breness. 

She  was  in  London,  and  this  was  "London  town." 
The  great  cities  of  the  United  States  had  seemed  to 
her  as  something  beyond  compare,- but  what  a  world 
was  here  ! 

Captain  Jameson  was  charged  to  take  her  to  a 
friend  of  his,  an  officer's  widow,  who  had  a  house 
near  the  Embankment,  and  who  had  already  received 
instructions  about  Annabel.  She  would  be  mother 
and  sister  to  the  girl  until  her  own  mother  came. 
This  was  a  providence  to  any  young  woman  arriving 
alone  in  a  great  city. 

They  were  just  about  to  put  out  for  her  house, 
when  a  fair  young  man  rushed  up  to  Jameson.     He 


Stage-Struck.  59 

seized  his  hand,  he  intoned  a  lusty  "How  are  you?" 
and  then  as  hastily  announced  his  departure  for 
Paris. 

"Paris!  But  stop;  where  do  you  come  from  just 
now  ?"  gasped  the  captain. 

*'  My  dear  fellow,"  said  the  fair  man,  "  I  came  in 
the  train  from  Liverpool.  Just  been  on  to  meet  my 
brother  who  was  expected  from  America  and  did  not 
come.  He  changed  his  mind  at  a  minute's  notice ; 
but  that's  nothing.  You  see,  he'd  forgotten  a  dinner- 
engagement  in  San  Francisco.  He'll  come  by  the 
next  trip  of  the  Arigona^  no  doubt.  I  nearly  missed 
the  train,  and  couldn't  get  into  your  car,  but  I  saw 
you,  as  usual,  surrounded  by  the  fair  sex."  This 
blonde  man  deliberately  bowed  to  Annabel. 

"  Good  Lord  !  you  take  away  my  breath,"  said 
Jameson.  "  But  here  ;  I'll  introduce  you.  Of  course 
that's  all  you  came  up  to  speak  to  me  for.  Miss 
Almont,  let  me  present  you  to  Mr.  Angel — Mr.  Victor 
Angel,  once  as  nice  a  fellow  as  ever  lived,  now  mad 
as  a  March  hare — mad  to  be  an  opera-singer."  Then 
he  went  through  the  usual  formula,  while  the  young 
lady  blushed  with  pleasure. 

I  may  here  say  that  Americans  usually  present 
ladies  to  gentlemen.  I  never  knew  why,  but  have 
always  remarked  that  they  do.  However,  this  is  a 
matter  of  little  importance.  In  a  thousand  years  or 
so  they  may  know  better.  It  has  taken  other  nations 
nearly  as  long  as  that.  Why  should  politeness  have 
a  premature  birth  in  America  ? 

Annabel  looked  with  much  friendliness  at  the  young 
man. 


6o  Stage-Struck, 

"What  is  your  voice?"  said  she,  without  another 
word  of  preliminary. 

"  Basso  profundo." 

She  looked  pleased.  He  read  something  in  her 
eyes,  and  ventured, 

"  But  you,  yourself  ?  I'll  bet  a  dollar  you  sing  too. 
What  is  your  voice  ?" 

"  High  soprano." 

"  How  high  do  you  go  ?" 

"Well,  when  I  am  in  trim,  up  to  Jenny  Lind's  high 
G,  and—" 

"  Good  Lord  !  there  you  are,  already  chinning  on 
the  music  business,  and  the  *  growler'  a- waiting  on 
his  cab." 

Captain  Jameson  looked  impatient.  Then  he  added 
with  a  vague  sort  of  politeness,  "You'll  meet  again, 
and  I  have  no  doubt  will  even  have  time  to  perpetrate 
many  duets  together;  but  don't  let  us  wait  here  any 
longer." 

"  I  am  going ;  I  am  going,"  laughed  Mr.  Angel  to 
the  captain  ;  then  he  said  deliberately  to  Annabel, 
"You  did  not  finish  telling  me  how  high  you  sang." 

"I  was  going  to  say,  'G  in  alt,'  but  it  seems  I 
couldn't  get  the  chance." 

The  captain  began  to  bustle  nervously  about.  While 
Annabel  was  yet  talking,  Mr.  Randolph  came  up  also, 
and  at  last  Major  Alexander. 

Before  separating,  a  rendezvous  between  the  men 
was  arranged  at  the  American  Exchange,  in  the  Strand. 
All  agreed  to  see  each  other  there,  except  the  major, 
who  was  almost  a  Briton  and  knew  London  even  bet- 
ter than  New  York. 


Stage-Struck.  6 1 

He  asked  Annabel  how  she  liked  the  looks  of  the 
city,  so  far. 

In  response  to  her  remark  about  its  being  a  little 
smoky,  he  added,  smilingly, 

"  Ah !  quite  true.  Let  me  see.  What  does  Byron 
say? 

"  *  A  mighty  mass  of  brick  and  smoke  and  shipping, 
Dirty  and  dusky,  but  as  wide  as  eye — ' " 

"Finish  it,"  said  Mr.  Randolph,  coming  up  at  that 
moment. 

"  '  A  huge  dim  cupola,  like  a  foolscap  crown 
On  a  fool's  head — and  there  is  London  town.' 

However,  no  matter ;  such  as  it  is,  here  we  are,  and 
I  hope,  Miss  Annabel,  to  come  soon  to  see  you.  My 
address  is  *The  Grand.'  " 

She  gave  hers  to  Mr.  Randolph. 

"  I  hope  you  will  come  ;  and  remember  that  you 
promised  to  tell  me  a — a  story  some  time  about — 
some  one." 

"Good-by,"  said  he,  briefly.  "I  have  not  forgot- 
ten my  promise.     Be  good  to  yourself." 

The  adieux  finally  over,  the  captain  started  for  his 
four-wheeler.  Annabel  was  packed  inside,  luggage 
was  put  on  the  top,  when  some  new  people  came  up 
to  the  captain. 

"Heaven  preserve  me!"  said  he,  glibly;  "more  peo- 
ple to  speak  to.  But  I  am  non  est,  simply  nonest.  Let's 
get  out  of  this.  Nice  man,  that  major;  a  real  thor- 
oughbred; knows  more  in  a  minit  than  I  ever  will. 
But  some  are  born  that  way.     Randolph's  a  rough 


62  Stage-Struck. 

diamond;  and  them  Dawsons  have  got  more  money 
than  brains.     As  to  Angel — " 

"  He  is  fine-looking.     I  hope  he  will  succeed — " 

"Succeed!"  shrieked  the  captain.  "He's  thrown 
up  a  good  living  to  be  a  singer.  He'll  ruin  himself, 
that's  what  he'll  do,  and  bust  the  whole  family  beside. 
And  you — you  sly  Miss  Lark,  you  sing  too.  Why 
didn't  you  say  so?" 

"Did  you  not  know  it?"     She  spoke  gravely. 

"No;  but  I  suspected  you.  I  thought  as  much. 
Don't  tell  me  any  more.  You  all  do  it.  Steamer- 
loads  of  'em  coming  every  year.  America  will  soon 
be  depopulated;  but  who  is  to  blame  ?  No  one  knows. 
You're  all  stark  mad  on  the  subject;  and  blessed  if  I 
don't  think  that  a  law  ought  to  be  passed  preventing 
you  all  from  coming  to  Europe  in  that  fashion!" 

The  captain  heaved  a  sigh  and  ceased. 

Annabel  was  about  to  speak,  when  he  interrupted 
even  her  thoughts. 

"  I  suppose  you'd  like  to  know  more  about  where 
you  are  going,  eh  ?" 

She  nodded  a  "Yes." 

"Well,  it's  to  my  old  friend  Mrs.  Edmonds.  She  is 
a  widow;  her  husband  was  an  officer.  She  has  three 
daughters  living  with  her,  all  charming — charming; 
they  all  sing.  I  have  children,  too;  but  if  one  of  'em 
ever  says  the  word  'sing'  to  me,  I'll  snatch  him  bald- 
headed  quicker  than  a  monkey  would  crack  a  pea-nut. 
Yes,  Mrs.  Edmonds'  girls  have  voices,  and — " 

"Oh!" 

"Don't  interrupt,  please.  They  are  all  fond  of 
singing,  at  least,  and  you'll  hear  music  talked  until 


Stage-Struck.  63 

your  hair  curls.  They  live  near  the  Embankment" 
(she  scarcely  knew  what  that  meant),  "  in  Salisbury 
Street,  Strand;  and  I  promise  you  that  you  will  be 
almighty  comfortable  and  happy  in  that  house.  I 
have  told  her  about  you  and  5^our  family.  You 
know  I  had  a  'gram  and  letter  from  Treherne,  your 
uncle.  They  very  seldom  take  any  one  to  live  with 
them,  but  Mrs.  Edmonds  will  look  after  you  just  like 
one  of  her  own." 

"How  thankful  I  am!"  murmured  the  girl.  "It  is 
indeed  most  fortunate  to  find  such  a  home." 

Then  conversation  ceased  for  the  moment.  They 
rattled  along  past  numbers  of  squares,  where  thickly 
leaved  trees  cast  their  shadows  in  the  street.  These 
squares  or  parks  were  neatly  enclosed.  Where  does 
one  see  such  bits  of  green  in  the  heart  of  a  great  city, 
except  in  London  ? 

One  thing  puzzled  Annabel.  She  thought  them  all 
alike.  The  captain  told  her  the  name  of  the  first;  and 
after  circuitous  turnings  she  said,  surprisedly, 

"  Why,  here  we  are  back  in  the  same  square  again! 
The  coachman  is  making  a  mistake.     Stop  him!" 

"Not  I.  This  is  all  right;  but  they  are  as  like  as 
two  peas  in  a  pod.  I  thought  so  myself  when  I  first 
saw  London;  but  wait  until  you  see  modern  London. 
If  you're  the  woman  I  take  you  to  be,  you'll  know 
how  to  distinguish  these  squares  by  instinct.  All  of 
the  female  population  hit  on  the  swell  part  of  a  town 
just  as  quick  as  they  would  find  out  whether  their 
neighbors'  bonnets  are  of  last  year's  or  of  this  year's 
fashion." 

"Are  we  going  to  a  fashionable  quarter?" 


64  Stage-Struck. 

The  captain  start 

**  Bless  you,  child,  no!  It  used  to  be  tremendous. 
Near  Salisbury  Street  is  Cecil  Street.  There's  a  house 
on  the  corner  where  old  Queen  Fuss-and-Feathers 
Elizabeth  used  to  visit  or  live;  but,  Lord!  I  wouldn't 
take  you  to  it.  There's  a  bed  that  Bess  used  to  sleep 
on.  No  one  doubts  that  statement.  The  posters 
shake  like  a  cat  with  the  dumb  ague;  and  once  a 
young  widow  whom  I  sent  there  to  lodge  came  near 
being  killed.  The  whole  of  the  lower  part  of  the  bed 
gave  way  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  came  within 
one  of  making  her  two  feet  shorter.  She  has  had 
enough  of  living  in  historical  houses,  especially  the 
Strand,  and  super-especially  the  aforesaid  mansion; 
in  fact,  she  eschews  them  now  and  for  ever.  She  has 
had  a  genteel  sufficiency." 

At  that  moment  they  came  in  sight  of  Trafalgar 
Square.  Annabel  gave  a  cry  of  delight.  She  saw 
for  the  first  time  the  monument  to  the  great  Nelson, 
the  granite  fountains,  and  the  wonderful  Landseer 
lions  ;  she  saw  the  long  gray  stone  building  devoted 
to  the  National  Gallery,  with  its  ridiculous  pepper- 
pots  on  the  top;  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  Whitehall, 
and  felt  impressed,  as  all  do  who  see  for  the  first,  nay, 
for  the  hundredth  time  this  historical  part  of  London. 
The  captain  told  her  the  name  of  each  object  as  they 
passed. 

They  turned  abruptly  into  a  street  where  hundreds 
of  cabs  and  omnibuses  were  passing.  This  was  the 
Strand,  or  the  beginning  of  it.  As  the  "'buses" 
stopped,  she  heard  men  shouting,  "  Bink!  Bink!" 
She  looked  up  wonderingly. 


Stage-Struck,  65 

"What  does  it  mean?"  said  she  to  her  companion; 
then  she  blushed.  She  thought  that  she  understood 
English.  Foolish,  innocent  young  American!  What 
a  delusion  ! 

"  He  means  *  Bank! ' "  said  the  captain,  coolly;  "  but, 
like  most  Englishmen,  he  never  says  what  he  means. 
Why  should  he  trouble  himself  to  speak  any  plainer  ? 
He  knows  there  is  always  some  one  around  obliged  to 
explain.  I  happen  to  be  that  some  one  just  now, 
and — and  I  am  obliged  to  explain." 

She  laughed,  but  still  looked  a  little  mystified. 

"  Do  all  speak  like  that  in  London  ?" 

"No;   not  all." 

"Do  they  all  have  that  accent?" 

"No;  not  all." 

"Better?" 

"No;  worse." 

"Why,  how  shall  I  be  able  to  understand?"  opening 
her  eyes  to  their  widest. 

"  You  won't,  at  first." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"  Got  the  first  word,  and  guessed  out  the  rest.  Oh, 
it's  easy — like  unrolling  a  tape-measure." 

"  How  queer  !     Will  it  take  me  long  to  learn  ?" 

"Oh  no;  those  musical  ears  of  yours  will  pick  it  up 
in  no  time.  It's  a  mistake  if  you  think  your  English 
is  English  in  London.  It  may  be  English  over  the 
other  side  of  the  pond,  but  once  you  get  here  it's  a 
long  way  from  being  the  language  spoken  in  Eng- 
land." 

"I  shall  call  it  American." 

"Call   it  whatever  you   like — heavens  and   earth! 


66  Stage-Struck. 

you  won't  be  far  wrong.  Hallo  !"  to  the  driver; 
"  what  are  you  doing  ?    Steady,  please." 

Cabby  jolted  them  past  four  omnibuses,  turned 
around  in  front  of  a  dirty-looking  little  theatre,  and 
into  so  very  narrow  a  street  that  going  into  it 
seemed  like  pouring  wine  through  the  small  part  of  a 
funnel — downhill,  too.  They  would  surely  be  upset. 
No;  nothing  of  the  kind.  Ah,  there's  none  like  the 
London  whip  !  Even  a  poor  cabby  is  capable  of 
being  a  fine  driver.  So  growler  No.  —  got  along 
without  any  upheaval,  and  finally  stopped  at  one  of  a 
row  of  dingy  brick  four-story  houses. 

"  Here  we  are,  and  there  is  Mrs.  Edmonds  at  the 
window  !     This  is  your  new  home  for  the  present." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  tall  dark-haired  girl. 
Her  eyes  were  like  stars,  her  face  wreathed  in  smiles, 
and  even  her  hair  seemed  combed  in  a  friendly 
fashion.  The  captain  tapped  her  on  the  cheek  as 
they  walked  in. 

"Ah,  Belle,  you  minx!  where's  mother?"  saying 
the  words  as  the  young  girl  led  the  way  straight  to 
where  the  mother  was. 

It  was  only  a  way  the  captain  had.  He  had  been 
there  fifty  times.  He  always  addressed  either  of  the 
girls  as  "You  minx!"  or  "Mischief!"  and  the 
mother,  Mrs.  Edmonds,  was  always  waiting  in  the 
lower  "  drawering-room,"  as  it  was  always  called. 

Annabel  was  ushered  in.  A  tall,  fair  woman 
gave  her  one  look,  then  opened  her  arms  without  a 
word.  The  young  stranger  was  somewhat  taken 
aback  by  this,  but  naturally  walked  into  the  arms. 
They  were  opened  for  her,  and  the  next  thing  she 
was  hugged  close  to  Mrs.  Edmonds,  and  a  warm  kiss 
imprinted  on  both  cheeks. 

"There,  my  dear,  I  hope  you  feel  at  home;"  then, 
standing  her  off  at  arm's  length,  "Great  Heavens  I 
how  like  she  is  to  her  mother  1" 

Mrs.  Edmonds'  voice  was  tender,  friendly,  and  ac- 


6B  Stage-Struck. 

centuated  with  a  surprise  that  any  parent  might  have 
felt  upon  noting  the  resemblance  to  one  of  his  own 
in  another's  child. 

"Like  her  mother!"  echoed  Jameson,  aghast. 
•*  Why,  where  on  earth  did  you  ever  see  her  mother  ? 
I  thought  you  didn't  know  her  ?" 

"Neither  do  I,"  retorted  Mrs.  Edmonds,  stoutly; 
"but  isn't  she  handsome?  isn't  she  fair?  and  didn't 
you  tell  me  that  her  dear  mamma  was  fair  and  hand- 
some ?  So  any  one  who  wasn't  a  fool  could  conclude 
at  once  that  she  resembles  her.  Girls  ought  always 
to  take  after  their  mothers" — drawing  herself  up 
proudly — "and  I  know  mine  look  more  like  me 
than  they  do  like  their  poor  dear,  dead  father." 

Mrs.  Edmonds  broke  down.  The  bare  remembrance 
of  the  gallant  19th  footer  (we  refer  to  his  regiment), 
now  no  more,  was  enough  to  lacerate  her  breast  and 
almost  inundate  the  small  "drawering-room"  with 
tears. 

Annabel,  becomingly  distressed,  immediately  went 
up  to  her. 

"  I  am  so  sorry — don't  think  of  it — and — and,  you 
know,  I  don't  look  a  bit  like  my  mother — don't  sob 
like  that — and  I  am  my  father's  image.  However,  to 
console  you — " 

"  Well,  well,  it  comes  to  the  same  thing,"  broke  in 
Jameson.  "  Your  father  and  mother  look  alike,  and 
you  look  like  both  of  them.  It's  all  right.  I  say,  Mrs. 
Edmonds,  if  you  go  on  like  that,  there'll  be  salt  water 
enough  here  to  save  a  season  at  Margate.  Cheer  up, 
and  let's  look  a  bit  after  the  luggage !" 

Mrs.    Edmonds    arose  with    one    great    sob,   said 


Stage-Struck.  69 

faintly,  "  I  am  better  now,"  and  resumed  an  air  of 
cheerfulness  quite  amazing.  As  she  left  her  seat, 
something  fled  from  beneath  her  skirts.  It  was  a 
cat. 

"  Ah,  Thomas !  there  you  are,"  said  the  captain. 
"  How  goes  it,  eh  ?" 

Thomas  came  up  to  be  stroked.  He  was  an  old 
pet  of  the  captain's.  Just  then  there  was  a  faint 
miauling,  and  seven  smaller  cats  came  from  under  the 
table.  They  leapt  playfully  about;  one  into  Mrs. 
Edmonds'  arms,  the  other  into  Belle's  lap,  on  to  the 
window-sill,  one  into  the  curtains,  and  the  rest 
dexterously  climbed  up  to  the  table-cloth. 

Preparations  had  been  made  for  five-o'clock  tea.  A 
dish  of  cream,  some  jam,  and  some  thin  slices  of 
bread  and  butter  were  already  distributed  on  their 
respective  plates.  To  Annabel's  horror,  the  cats 
attacked  the  cream,  and  their  tails  wagged  lawlessly 
in  the  jam;  and  it  was  all  Mrs.  Edmonds,  the  captain, 
and  the  family  could  do  to  save  something  from  the 
wreck. 

Their  efforts  were  not  wholly  successful.  This 
episode  reminded  the  hostess  that  the  young  stranger 
might  be  hungry.  It  had  never  entered  her  head 
that  she  could  have  any  distaste  for  cats,  or  any 
objection  to  eating  with  them  or  after  them. 

Annabel  was  invited  to  seat  herself  at  the  hospi- 
table board,  but  evidence  of  an  inward  struggle  must 
have  shown  upon  her  features.  Her  eyes  took  in  the 
scene — the  cats,  the  cream,  the  cloth,  the  tout  ensemble 
— and  they  showed  that  she  did  not  quite  like  it. 

Belle,  watching  her  slyly,  had  remarked  this  expres- 


70  Stage-Struck. 

sion.  She  had  a  great  deal  of  sang-froid^  and  imme- 
diately took  away  the  dish. 

"  What  a  pity  !  This  happens  so  often" — seeing 
the  increasing  horror  in  the  guest's  eyes — "as  it 
chances  to-day.  We  have  quarts  of  cream  always  in 
the  house;  I  will  bring  some  more  at  once." 

"Do,  Belle,  dear,  there's  a  darling,"  added  Mrs. 
Edmonds,  languidly.  "  I  will  now  make  the  tea;  and 
Annie" — to  the  youngest  girl — "  you  may  fetch  dear 
mother  some  hot  muffins"  (stooping  to  kiss  her 
fondly).  Affection  was  not  wasted  in  this  house;  it 
was  utilized. 

"  Captain,  will  you  not  join  us  ?" 

The  captain  could  not.  He  had  fifty  things  to  do, 
and  fifty  Americans  to  look  after;  but  he  would  drop 
in  to-morrow  to  see  how  Miss  Annabel  found  herself. 
He  was  off  for  Liverpool  by  the  2.40,  and  in  the  mean 
time  was  quite  at  their  orders.  Did  they  require 
anything?  could  he  be  of  any  service?  No?  Then 
he  would  say  ta-ta  until  to-morrow. 

In  the  mean  time  the  cab  had  been  paid  and  dis- 
charged, Annabel's  luggage  stowed  away  to  the 
second  story  front,  and  the  party  could  now  sit  down 
to  tea. 

Just  as  they  were  comfortably  seated,  a  faint  whine 
was  heard  outside  the  door.  Mrs.  Edmonds  fairly 
sprang  from  her  seat. 

"  Bless  him,  mother's  darling  angel!  left  out  in  the 
cold.     He  should  have  something,  the  sweet  love." 

Then  she  admitted  a  white-by-nature  mongrel  who 
had  just  escaped  death  in  the  street  from  a  butcher's 
cart,  and  who,  to  the  thousand  flecks  of  smut  which 


Stas'e- Struck,  yi 

had  so  darkened  his  original  silk,  added  a  few  swabs 
of  mud  and  a  conglomeration  of  filth  only  to  be 
reaped  after  a  harvest  of  smart  sowing  in  the  London 
streets. 

This  was  the  new-comer.  He  was  dirty,  but  wel- 
come. A  Chinese  embroidered  towel  was  whipped 
off  from  the  back  of  a  chair,  and  the  poor  little 
mongrel's  legs  were  tenderly  wiped.  The  extreme 
outer  layer  of  excrescence  disappeared. 

The  large  lovely  eyes  of  the  creature  looked  his 
gratitude;  but  his  lawless  habits  could  not  long  keep 
his  manners  in  check. 

He  jumped  into  Mrs.  Edmonds'  lap,  and  from  there 
straight  on  to  the  table.  The  slices  of  well-buttered 
bread  were  the  indubitable  attraction,  and  he  proved 
their  magnetic  influence  by  immediately  seizing  upon 
the  nearest  "  at  paw." 

Annabel  shrieked,  "  Oh,  stop  him!"  But  little  Annie 
had  already  taken  him  in  charge.  By  this  time  the 
despoiled  cats  cried  for  vengeance. 

What !  a  mongrel  to  have  something  and  they 
nothing ! 

It  was  a  shame.  Then  ensued  a  fight  between 
them,  but  such  a  battle  and  such  a  conglomeration  of 
sound  as  Annabel  never  remembered  to  have  heard 
in  her  life  before. 

Five-o'clock  tea  was  not  only  a  delusion,  but  a 
snare.  The  scene  waxed  so  warm  that  a  separation 
had  to  be  effected.  The  door  was  opened,  a  piece  of 
something  thrown  into  the  hall,  and  the  seven  cats, 
like  seven  leopards,  sprang  tumbling  over  each  other 
into  the  entry. 


72  Stage-Struck. 

The  mongrel's  agility  being  somewhat  lessened 
since  his  tilt  with  the  butcher-carts  in  the  morning, 
he  was  left  so  far  behind  in  the  chase  that  the  door 
was  shut  prematurely,  and  the  squalling  tabbies  be- 
came masters  of  the  outer  breastworks. 

Mrs.  Edmonds  sighed,  and  Miss  Belle  looked 
slightly  mortified.  She  thought  their  guest  did  not 
like  cats,  and,  perhaps,  she  cared  as  little  for  dogs. 
She  remembered  that  Annabel  had  eaten  nothing,  and 
commenced  at  once  offering  her  food. 

Annabel  shuddered.  She  had  heard  of  hardships 
in  a  singer's  life,  but  nothing  like  unto  this.  She 
remembered  how  Malibran's  father  beat  her  because 
she  sang  false  notes;  how  Sontaghad  to  wash,  starch, 
and  iron  a  white 'gown  each  day  in  order  to  sing 
properly  dressed  in  the  evening;  and  how  Wilt's 
avarice  obliged  her  to  scrub  her  own  stone  staircase: 
but  she  had  never  heard  of  any  singer  living  with  cats. 

Some  tea  was  given  her  in  the  cup  which  Thomas 
had  so  gallantly  knighted  with  his  tail.  She  felt 
squeamish.     Mrs.  Edmonds  saw  it. 

"  I  believe  I  am  sea-sick  !" 

**  Nonsense  !     Do  try  some  tea." 

"It's  the  cup;  Tom  switched  his  tail  in  it,"  said 
little  Annie,  with  bland  and  child-like  vigor. 

Mrs.  Edmonds  smiled. 

"My  dear  Miss  Almont,  pray  forgive  me.  You 
won't  ?" — playfully.  "  Ah,  well,  I  know  of  one  way  to 
earn  your  forgiveness.  Belle,  open  that  buffet;  to  the 
left  you  will  find  the  Farranti's  cup.  Our  young 
friend  shall  drink  out  of  it — the  first  one  not  of  the 
family  who  has  ever  had  that  honor," 


Stage-Struck,  73 

"  She  handed  Belle  a  bunch  of  keys,  and  she  brought 
forth  a  cup  of  rare  Sevres.  It  had  alining  of  gold, 
a  saucer  with  a  wreath  of  finest  flowers,  and  on  the 
cup  were  painted  cupids,  youths  and  maidens  singing 
with  golden  harps.  Calliope  and  Apollo  were  on  a 
throne,  while  around  them  played  all  of  the  musical 
gods  and  goddesses. 

Mrs.  Edmonds  handed  it  to  her  in  triumph. 
"  There  !  Bellini,  Rossini,  Malibran,  Vaccaj  have 
drunk  out  of  it,  and  last,  but  not  least,  my  dear,  the 
great  contralto  Farranti  herself.  It  was  presented  to 
her  in  Cairo,  after  singing  'Romeo,'  in  Vaccaj's 
*  Romeo  and  Juliet.'  " 

"  She — is  it  possible  ?"  gasped  Annabel;  "and  am  I 
to  drink  from  her  cup?  Oh,  let  me  have  it  at  once, 
and — and  please  tell  me  all  about  her." 

Mrs.  Edmonds  smiled.  "  I  knew  that  would  bring 
back  your  appetite,  if  anything  could;  and,  as  soon  as 
you  commence  to  eat  and  drink,  I  will  begin  to  talk." 

Tea  in  a  great  singer's  cup  !  It  was  a  good  omen, 
and  she  was  lucky  to  have  the  first  draught  in  the 
gilded  tasse  of  so  renowned  a  woman.  Her  thoughts 
sailed  on,  with  all  the  impulsiveness  of  youth;  her 
blood  thrilled  with  high-soprano  fervor.  Could  the 
presence  of  seven  hundred  cats  or  seven  thousand 
mongrel  curs  disturb  her?  even  though  every  one 
of  them  put  its  fore  paws  into  her  plate  ! 

She  was  already  in  another  world.  Her  fancy  led 
her  on  to  scenes  of  triumph,  to  splendid  achievements 
in  the  glorious  world  of  art  and  song. 

She  drank  her  tea  hysterically;  she  ate  slices  of  but- 
tered bread  with  jam;  she  expressed  no  surprise  when 


74  Stage-Struck. 

a  fine  joint  came  in  from  the  kitchen;  she  only  half 
heard  Mrs.  Edmonds'  apology,  "  It  was  so  late,  they 
were  having  tea  and  dinner  in  one;"  and  only  little 
Annie's  remark  brought  her  back  to  the  stern  realities 
of  existence.  The  child  watched  her  anxiously,  then 
said, 

"  We  never  have  three  helps  of  jam.  Mother  treats 
you  just  as  she  does  Tramp." 

Tramp  was  the  mongrel. 


^^^H 


CHAPTER    IX. 

Long  before  the  tea  was  finished,  Mrs.  Edmonds 
began  to  talk  about  "  The  Farranti,"  as  she  called 
her.  Annabel  had  quieted  the  first  pangs  of  hunger. 
She  had  done  more  than  that,  but  it  had  been  a  very 
mechanical  performance.  Her  anxiety  to  hear  about 
the  artist  had  not  lessened  her  appetite;  it  had  simply 
subjugated  it. 

Little  Annie's  remark  about  the  jam  positively 
stupefied  her.  She  had  no  idea  that  she  had  been 
helped  even  once.  She  was  eating — anything,  and 
thinking  everything;  but  her  everything  was  embo- 
died in  the  one  word  "music." 

"  Look  at  that  picture,"  said  Mrs.  Edmonds,  "  the 
one  hanging  in  that  corner" — pointing  to  the  right  of 
the  window     "  Whom  do  you  think  it  is  ?" 

Annabel  rose  hastily.  "  I  know;  it  is  the  Farranti." 
She  then  went  up  to  it.  "  How  beautiful!  And  was 
it  thought  like ?  I  mean,  did  it  resemble  her?  How 
lovely  she  must  have  been!" 

''Like!  It  is  as  like  as  my  two  thumbs,  only  she 
was  even  handsomer.  Belle  has  her  eyes  and  hair, 
but  that  is  all.  The  Farranti  was  tall  and  slim,  as 
you  are.  I  never  knew  a  man  to  see  her  without  fall- 
ing in  love  with  her  at  once.  She  had  a  beautiful 
neck,  as  you  see;  notice  it.      Long,  and  with  such 


^(>  Stage-Struck, 

sloping  and  rounded  shoulders,  my  love,  that  even  an 
India  shawl  pinned  across  them  v^rould  scarcely  hold 
on."  Mrs.  Edmonds  w^as  continuing  her  description. 
"  And  when  she  warbled,  you  could  see  her  throat  go 
in  and  out  like  a  canary's." 

"What  was  her  voice  ?" 

"  A  deep  contralto;  as  deep  as  a  river,  and  as  high 
nearly  as  the  Alps.  She  studied  like  mad  to  get  on. 
I  never  knew  a  woman  work  harder.  But,  my  dear, 
you  must  be  tired  after  your  journey  from  Liverpool. 
We  will  talk  of  her  some  other  time." 

"  No,  no;  let  me  hear  all  now.  I  am  not  a  bit  tired. 
In  short,  I  would  rather  hear  now;  then,  when  I  go 
to  my  room,  I  can  think  of  her." 

"Dear  soul!"  Mrs.  Edmonds'  ejaculation  was 
short,  but  she  made  up  for  this  by  her  affectionate 
manner,  and  got  up  at  once  to  kiss  the  little  enthu- 
siast. "  It  is  no  wonder  that  you  should  be  interested 
in  hearing  about  her;  but  every  one  loved  her  who 
knew  her.  She's  dead  now — dead  these  ten  years,  and 
the  world  going  on  just  the  same." 

In  consideration  of  this  fact.  Belle  ventured  to  make 
a  suggestion.  She  also  feared  that  tears  would  fall  if 
the  subject  were  continued. 

"  Dear  mother,  mayn't  we  clear  away  the  tea-things 
and  go  up  to  the  drawing-room  ?  You  can  talk  there 
just  as  well,  and — "  Then  she  went  up  to  her 
mother  and  whispered  something. 

Mrs.  Edmonds  arose  directly.  "  My  dear  Miss 
Almont,  let  us  go  to  the  drawering-room,  and  then 
I  shall  continue  about  the  Farranti.  "  As  she  said 
this  she  led  the  way  upstairs. 


Stage-Struck.  77 

The  stairs  had  a  narrow  carpet  almost  in  rags^ 
which  seemed  to  give  great  pleasure  to  the  cats.  The 
seven  were  bounding  about,  with  two  stranger  tabbies 
from  the  neighboring  houses,  come  to  pay  them  a 
visit.  This  was  enough  for  Tramp.  Having  main- 
tained silence,  or  nearly  that,  for  some  little  while,  it 
was  fully  time  for  him  to  join  in  the  sport.  He  sprang 
upon  the  strangers.  Tommy  seized  his  string,  and 
gave  him  a  sharp  thwack  with  his  diminutive  paw. 
This  raised  mutiny  in  the  camp,  and  there  ensued  a 
battle  which  recalled  all  the  characteristics  of  the 
high-tea  fray. 

Now  that  Annabel  had  no  longer  to  defend  her  food 
from  their  attentions,  she  could  enjoy  a  hearty  laugh 
at  their  antics.  It  was  almost  impossible  to  get  up 
the  stairs,  but  the  grand  move  was  finally  effected. 

Mrs.  Edmonds  seized  Tramp;  the  stranger  cats 
were  worsted;  and  the  attention  of  the  seven  others 
was  called  towards  the  dining-room,  where  little 
Annie  stood  smiling,  with  a  lump  of  sugar  in  her  tiny 
hand. 

Most  ladies  wore  trailing  gowns  at  that  epoch  in 
London,  and  Mrs.  Edmonds  dragged  two  good  yards 
of  mottled  silk  after  her.  On  Annabel  "  nearly  walk- 
ing up  her  back,"  as  they  reached  the  drawing-room 
she  turned  with  a  gracious  smile  of  forgiveness  and 
explanation. 

"  My  train  is  a  little  long,  but  I  am  so  fond  of  trains; 
then,  too,  it's  more  imposing.  I  always  wear  this 
dress,  or  another  like  it,  when  I  expect  the  lawyers. 
You  must  know  that  the  children  are  wards  in  Chan- 
cery, and  to-day  I  expect  one  of  their  trustees  to  come 


78  Stage-Struck. 

with  the  lawyer.  It  is  most  important,  so  of  course  I 
am  prepared  in  the  way  of  toilet." 

Annabel  bowed  ;  but  as  she  walked  after  the  lady 
she  stumbled.  The  dog  had  torn  the  edge  of  the  car- 
pet near  the  door,  and  she  had  not  perceived  it.  She 
nearly  fell  arm's  length,  not  because  she  didn't  see  the 
rent,  but  because  she  was  wondering,  "  What  are 
wards  in  Chancery  ?"  Before  she  could  avoid  the 
hole,  one  foot  had  already  caught  up  in  it. 

Mrs.  Edmonds  glanced  quickly  towards  her. 
"There!"  said  she,  with  provoked  accent;  "there  is 
a  proof  of  what  I  said.  Everything  going  to  ruin  be- 
cause they  are  wards  in  Chancery.  I  can  scarcely 
buy  bread  without  asking  the  lawyers.  The  water- 
pipes  are  out  of  repair,  the  kitchen  is  flooded,  and  all 
of  the  Farranti's  valuable  manuscripts  of  Rossini,  and 
the  like,  are  rotting.  The  sewerage  is  bad  ;  and  the 
house  needs  blinds,  and  new  paint  and  paper.  I  would 
furnish  it  outright,  but  I  can't.  The  money  belongs 
to  the  children,  and  they  can't  get  hold  of  but  so  much 
at  a  time,  and  that  paid  over  every  quarter.  Do  you 
see  these  gray  hairs  ?" 

Annabel  did  not  know  whether  she  was  really  ex- 
pected to  see  them  or  not.  Hesitating  between  polite- 
ness and  honesty,  she  stammered, 

"  I  see  a — a  very  few  ;  not  enough  to  mention." 

"  Well,  you  are  polite.  I  see  hundreds,  and  all — all 
since  I  have  had  to  do  with  lawyers.  My  dear,  what- 
ever you  do,  never  leave  your  children  wards  in  Chan- 
cery.    I — " 

"  Mother,   mother  !     Here's  Mr.  Woolson  and  Mr. 


Stage-Struck.  79 

Beak.  I  had  my  head  out  of  the  window  and  saw 
'em  comin'." 

Annie's  little  voice  was  shrill,  but  youthfully  so. 
She  came  up  two  stairs  at  a  time,  with  waving  "  Mil- 
tonian  locks"  and  dancing  eyes.  Her  haste  to  un- 
burden her  mind  of  this  tremendous  news  was  fatal. 
A  clean  pinafore,  donned  for  the  expected  visit,  caught 
on  a  nail  in  the  door,  and  was  torn  to  ribbons.  Even 
the  flounce  came  to  grief.  It  had  been  sewed  on  a 
chain-stitch  machine,  and  the  first  thread  giving  way, 
the  whole  structure  followed  suit. 

The  child  was  dismayed  and  disheartened.  Mrs. 
Edmonds  good-naturedly  soothed  her,  gave  her  six- 
pence not  to  cry,  told  her  to  throw  it  into  the  rag- 
basket  (not  the  sixpence,  but  the  pinafore),  and  hur- 
ried her  off  in  search  of  another  one. 

"  This  was  my  prettiest,"  whimpered  Annie;  "and 
— and  I  haven't  another  clean." 

At  this  moment  Belle  appeared.  "Here  are  Mr. 
Woolson  and  Mr.  Beak,  mother,"  she  breathlessly 
cried.  "They  are  coming  up  directly.  Oh,  what  a 
shame  !"  glancing  at  Annie's  ruined  pinafore. 

But  there  was  no  time  for  looking  about.  The  child 
was  dragged  up  a  pair  of  stairs,  Annabel  was  requested 
to  follow  immediately,  and  in  another  moment  the 
three  found  themselves  in  the  guest's  bed-chamber. 
Her  boxes  were  ranged  about,  and,  to  her  delight, 
things  wore  a  surprising  aspect  of  neatness. 

Belle  suddenly  realized  that  Annabel  might  like  to 
be  left  to  herself.  Hastily  apologizing  for  thus  "  piling 
into  her  room,"  as  she  expressed  it,  she  made  her 


8o  Stage-Struck. 

coming  there  an  excuse  to  see  that  everything  was  in 
proper  order. 

"  We  have  two  maids  besides  the  cook,"  she  said  ; 
"but  one  never  likes  to  trust  wholly  to  servants." 

"  You  are  kind,"  faltered  Annabel. 

"  And  now  we  will  leave  you.  Come,  Annie."  She 
drew  the  little  girl  away  by  the  hand.  "  If  you  want 
anything,  do  ring." 

"  Thanks." 

"The  wire  is  broken,"  she  continued,  in  a  somewhat 
mortified  tone ;  "  but  we  always  hear  the  vibration 
below  when  any  one  pulls  the  rope  hard  enough,  so 
it's  all  the  same  ;  one  of  us  will  surely  come  up  to  see 
if  you  want  anything.  Au  revoir.  You  see,  I  know 
two  words  of  French.  Can  you  speak  French  ?"  she 
continued.     "  No  ?    Well,  good-by.     Come,  Annie." 

The  girl  left  with  so  cheerful  a  smile  that  she  seemed 
to  take  all  the  brightness  away  with  her. 

Annabel  was  alone  at  last.  It  had  been  a  long  day, 
and  fraught  with  a  totally  new  experience. 

This  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  found  herself 
in  any  home  not  her  own  ;  the  first  time  that  unfa- 
miliar voices  had  sounded  in  her  ears.  She  felt  a  little 
dreary  and  lonesome. 

She  looked  at  her  watch,  and  found  to  her  surprise 
that  it  was  nearly  eight  o'clock.  Eight !  nearly  nine. 
How  time  had  flown  !  and  it  was  still  broad  daylight. 
She  had  never  before  known  what  an  English  twilight 
was  like.  She  raised  her  eyes  with  wondering  awe. 
A  feeling  of  reverence  came  over  her,  and  a  heavenly 
calm  pervaded  her  soul.  The  wraith  of  day  had  de- 
scended upon  the  town.     The  young  girl  sighed.  She 


Stage-Struck.  Si 

felt  that  this  was  day's  better  self.  She  mused  upon 
the  scene,  and  leaned  from  her  casement  to  look  at 
the  river,  which  was  already  darkening  oven  Lights 
here  and  there  appeared  on  the  opposite  shore. 
Ghostly  barges  glided  by.  The  bridges  threw  long 
shadows  athwart  the  stream.  She  murmured  softly, 
"  And  so  this  is  the  twilight  of  which  I  have  heard  so 
often." 

Passing  vehicles  ceased  rumbling.  The  quiet  of 
Salisbury  Street  was  at  this  hour  almost  provincial. 
There  was  only  the  distant  sound  of  deep-toned  bells, 
the  chimes  of  some  church  which  rung  out  a  descend- 
ing scale  with  mellow  accents  ;  then  another  bell 
seemed  to  answer,  and  yet  another. 

Suddenly  she  heard  a  voice  rise  from  the  street.  It 
came  from  a  girl.  She  was  slovenly-looking  and  in 
tatters  ;  the  voice  was  shrill  and  starved.  She  was 
singing  "Auld  Robin  Gray." 

The  words  carried  Annabel  back  to  her  home.  How 
many  times  she  had  sung  it  in  America  !  Dear  Amer- 
ica !  would  she  ever  see  it  again?  Tears  sprang  into 
her  eyes.  Was  she  really  going  to  cry  ?  No ;  she 
would  think  of  nothing  sad — of  nothing  which  could 
bring  even  a  shadow  of  regret  to  her  mind.  She  must 
live  only  for  the  future. 

To  divert  the  current  of  her  thoughts,  she  turned  to 
her  boxes,  woman's  great  consolation. 

They  were  examined  carefully,  and,  as  they  had 
been  in  the  hold  of  the  steamer,  she  thought  it  would 
be  as  well  to  see  if  everything  was  all  right.  The 
ransacking  then  commenced,  but  did  not  go  very  far. 

A  letter  from  her  mother  lay  in  the  tray  of  the  first 


82  St  age-Struck. 

box,  and  she  seized  upon  it  with  as  much  avidity  as 
if  the  post  had  just  brought  it.  She  took  it  up  with 
the  greatest  tenderness,  saying,  "Dearest  mother!  I 
shall  read  it  over  again;  it  will  seem  like  talking  with 
her."     Then  she  sat  by  the  window  and  commenced. 


"  Quebec,  May  20th. 
"  My  darling  Annabel: 

"  We  have  succeeded.  I  was  too  near 
dead  to  write  you  on  my  arrival,  and  purposely  kept 
you  in  ignorance  of  affairs  until  I  could  tell  you 
exactly  how  things  stood.  Your  uncle  was  bitterly 
opposed  to  your  going  on  the  stage,  and  would  not 
hear  of  your  going  to  Europe  to  study;  but  at  once 
I  told  him  how  determined  you  were — that  nothing 
on  earth  could  stop  you.  When  I  told  him,  in  fact, 
that  you  were  going  to  sail  the  twenty-fourth  in 
the  Artgonay  I  expected  that  he  would  fly  into  a  rage. 
What  do  you  think  he  said  ?  *  Little  monkey  !  Just 
like  her  pluck,  to  start  off  alone;  but  she  knows  her 
Uncle  Jim  won't  let  her  starve.  And  you — I  suppose 
you  must  go,  too?* 

"  Well,  dear,  imagine  my  surprise.  Heaven  knows  I 
never  would  have  permitted  you  to  go  without  me  had 
I  even  dreamed  that  I  could  come  on  so  quickly;  but 
so  it  is.  He  has  arranged  everything,  and  we  are  to 
have  one  hundred  dollars  every  month,  and  I  can 
make  the  rest  up  by  my  writing.  Anybody  can  be  a 
foreign  correspondent  for  American  newspapers,  so  I 
am  sure  to  get  on.  If  your  father  was  like  any  other 
man,    he   might   help,   too;    but   it   is   quite   useless 


Stage-Struck.  83 

depending  on  him  for  anything.  If  he  can  only  take 
care  of  himself,  I  shall  be  thankful. 

"I  am  sorry  that  I  couldn't  come  with  you;  but 
you  see  how  wise  it  was  in  me  to  send  you,  any  way. 
Once  gone,  I  knew  he  would  not  have  the  heart  to 
tell  you  to  come  back  without  having  studied  a  little. 
I  shall  start  for  Europe  in  three  weeks,  and,  in  the 
mean  time,  the  Lord  knows  that  I  have  enough  to  do. 
You  will  get  this  the  day  of  sailing,  so  I  know  you 
will  carry  a  cheerful  heart  abroad. 

"  Dear  child,  I  hate  to  part  with  you,  and  I  send 
you  a  thousand  kisses.  The  letter  seems  cold,  but  I 
never  was  a  demonstrative  woman.  Although  I  do 
love  my  dear  Annabel,  I  find  I  haven't  one  fine  speech 
ready,  except  'God  bless  you.'  I  think  I  talked  my- 
self hoarse  in  New  York,  and  I  certainly  cried  buckets 
of  tears  when  I  said  good-by  there.  I  won't  reopen 
old  wounds.  You  will  have  fine  weather.  The 
steamer  is  magnificent;  and  Uncle  Jim  has  already 
telegraphed  to  an  old  friend  in  New  York  to  provide 
you  with  letters,  and  to  place  you  in  the  captain's 
care.  Now,  my  dear  child,  things  have  gone  thus 
smoothly;  remember,  it  is  too  late  now  to  back  out. 
After  having  done  all  in  my  power  to  persuade  you 
not  to  go  on  the  stage,  I  feel  it  my  duty  as  a  mother, 
now  that  you  will  go,  to  stand  by  you;  and  I  beg  you, 
never  be  faint-hearted,  never  lose  confidence  in  your- 
self,] and  believe  in  your  success.  Remember,  *As 
your  faith  is,  so  shall  it  be  unto  you.'  A  cable,  and 
also  a  letter,  goes  in  this  post  to  Captain  Jame- 
son, in  Liverpool,  who  will  meet  you  at  the  ship's 
landing,  and   see  you   safe  to   a   Mrs.   Edmonds,  in 


84  Stage-Struck. 

London,  who  takes  lodgers.  Everything  has  been 
prepared  for  your  comfort,  and  I  do  trust  that  noth- 
ing will  prevent  a  safe  arrival  and  your  being  very 
happy  until  I  come.  Uncle  Jim  sends  his  love,  and  a 
five-pound  note  to  buy  you  a  dress  in  London.  How 
good  he  is,  and  what  a  kind  brother  to  me !  And  to 
think  that  he  has  not  kith  or  kin  in  this  world  besides 
us,  except  your  cousin,  who,  since  she  ran  away,  is 
having  a  hard  time — children,  a  drunken  husband, 
and  so  on.  But  don't  let  us  talk  about  her.  You  will 
hear  from  me  by  the  next  steamer.  In  the  mean 
time,  keep  up  a  good  heart,  and  think  how  dear  you 
are  to  all  of  us — to  all,  and  above  all  to  your  loving 
mother,  who  kisses  you  a  thousand  times,  and  wishes 
you  yet  again  Godspeed.  Do  not  forget  to  pray  for 
us;  all  our  prayers  are  with  and  for  you. 

"  ^ver  your  affectionate,  devoted  mother, 

"  Hester  Almont." 


CHAPTER  X. 

The  letter  cheered  her  heart,  and  renewed  all  her 
ambition  and  hope.  Her  first  feeling  was  one  of 
sadness;  her  next,  joy;  and  the  next,  one  of  profound 
thankfulness  and  gratitude.  She  threw  herself  upon 
her  knees,  and  prayed  with  heartfelt  fervor.  She 
prayed  for  everybody,  with  that  large-heartedness 
which  is  the  characteristic  of  youthful  minds.  This 
soothed  her;  and  when  she  rose  from  her  knees,  her 
mind  was  in  harmony  with  all  the  world;  indeed,  she 
even  felt  less  fatigued.  She  put  her  boxes  in  order; 
then  she  donned  a  fresh  gown,  and  was  about  to  write  to 
her  mother,  when  there  was  a  tap  on  the  door.  Little 
Annie  stood  outside,  with  a  smiling  face  and  a  bunch 
of  roses. 

"  I  bought  them  with  the  sixpence  mother  gave  me," 
she  said.  "  I  came  to  the  door  before,  but  you  were 
on  your  knees" — this  with  awful  solemnity.  "Mr. 
Beak  was  a-jawing  mother  in  the  drawing-room;  but 
I  ran  away,  and  now  I  am  here  again.  Are  you  glad 
to  see  me  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  am  glad;  and  thank  you  ever  so  much 
for  the  flowers." 

"Oh,  you  have  changed  your  frock!  Eulalie  al- 
ways does  when  Brak  comes." 

"Who  is  Eulalie,  and  who  is  Brak?"  Annabel 
spoke  idly. 

"  Eulalie  is  my  sister  Lallie,  and  Brak  is  short  for 


86  Stage-Struck, 

Brakenston.  He  is  related  to  a  lord.  He  is  in  love 
with  Lallie,  and  ma  hates  him.  She  says  he's  a  good- 
for-nothing — only  fit  to  sing  and  play  the  piano,  which 
he  does  beautifully." 

Annabel  was  curious.  Heretofore  her  idea  of  a 
good-for-nothing  had  not  been  that  of  a  man  who 
played  the  piano  beautifully  ;  so  the  explanation  a 
little  surprised  her. 

"But,"  she  interrupted  hesitatingly.  She  did  not 
know  whether  she  should  stop  the  child  or  permit 
her  to  go  on.  She  considered  the  affair  no  secret, 
from  the  matter-of-fact  way  in  which  Annie  spoke  of 
it.  "But,"  she  repeated,  "if  your  mamma  does  not 
like  him,  why  does  he  continue  to  come  ?" 

"  Ma  can't  help  herself.  If  he  does  not  come  to  the 
house,  ma  says  Lallie  will  go  out  of  it  to  meet  him. 
She  talked  it  over  with  Belle,  and — and  they  agreed 
that  he  had  better  come  here.  Perhaps  he'll  get 
tired  of  coming.  Then,  he  sings  so  beautifully.  Oh! 
oh!" — rushing  to  the  door — "that's  him  now.  He 
has  just  come,  and  the  lawyer  hasn't  gone  yet.  Will 
you  come  down  ?" 

"I?     Certainly  not." 

She  rose,  half  indignant.  The  idea  !  But  the  child 
meant  it  well  enough,  and — and  Annabel  commenced 
wondering  how  Brakenston  sang. 

Just  then  there  was  a  sound  as  of  some  one  going 
away.  The  drawing-room  door  was  opened,  then 
shut.  Tramp  began  to  bark  with  fury,  and  Mrs. 
Edmonds'  voice  was  heard  on  the  staircase,  saying, 

"  He  would  not  be  mean  enough  for  that.  How- 
ever, no  one  knows.     This  is  little,  but — ** 


Stage-Struck,  8/ 

"  But  it  will  have  to  do." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so" — with  a  deep  sigh.  "  Oh,  that 
my  children  were  ever  made  wards  in  Chancery  !" 

Annie  screamed  over  the  stairs,  "Good-by,  Mr. 
Woolson  !  Good -by,  Mr.  Beak!" — this  last  with  a 
solemn  intonation.  Then  the  child  threw  up  her 
curly  head,  kissed  Mr.  Woolson,  and  dashed  off  as 
the  lawyer  was  about  to  kiss  her,  "I  don't  like  you," 
she  demurely  observed;  "ma  says  that  you  will  finish 
by  robbing — " 

Mrs.  Edmonds  cried,  "  Oh,  stop  her !"  as  she  tried 
to  clap  her  hand  over  the  little  mouth  before  the  rest 
of  this  perhaps  truthful  but  uncomplimentary  sentence 
had  oozed  out. 

Mr.  Beak  blushed  as  much  as  any  lawyer  could; 
that  is  to  say,  a  faint  hectic  glow  pervaded  his  nose. 
He  was  slightly  mortified,  because  the  old  adage, 
"  Children  and  fools  tell  the  truth,"  rose  in  his  mind, 
and  he  feared  lest  this  might  occur  also  to  the  others. 

Annabel  had  heard  Annie's  explanation  and  those 
leave-takings.  It  dawned  upon  her  that  she  was  in 
the  bosom  of  a  curious  family.  Still,  they  were  all 
so  kind,  warm-hearted,  and  sympathetic  that  she  de- 
cided at  once  that  she  was  sure  to  like  them;  although 
she  felt  certain  that  she  would  have  to  put  up  with 
many  little  things  which  did  not  please  her.  To  be 
sure,  their  ways  were  somewhat  outspoken,  the  cats 
were  numerous,  and  the  house  was  fearfully  untidy; 
but  perhaps  this  would  not  always  be  so.  Mrs.  Ed- 
monds' motherly  welcome  had  already  gone  to  the 
girl's  heart.  That  settled  it.  She  would  be  pleased 
in  spite  of  all  drawbacks. 


88  Stage-Struck, 

The  landlady's  face  appeared  at  the  door. 

Annabel  sprang  forward.  "  Oh,  how  kind  of  you  to 
come  to  see  me — up  all  these  stairs,  too  !" 

"My  dear,  I  am  tired.  What  with  talking  with 
those  men,  arguing  and  the  like,  I  had  scarcely  a 
breath  left  in  my  body.  However,  I  would  come  up 
to  see  if  you  had  everything  you  needed." 

"  Everything,  thanks.  I  like  my  room  so  much.  I 
have  been  looking  from  my  window.  What  a  splen- 
did view  !  and  twilight  is  my  favorite  hour,  I  had  no 
idea,  however,  that  it  could  be  so  beautiful  as  in  Lon- 
don.    It  is  marvellous,  indeed." 

"I  knew  you  would  like  your  room.  Besides,  just 
about  now  a  number  of  men  go  to  their  club  near 
Adelphi  Terrace.  Belle  often  sits  here,  and  Eulalie 
used  to  enjoy  it  before  she  took  up  with  Brakenston. 
You  don't  know  him  ?" 

''  No.     How  should  I  >" 

"  Well,  he  is  the  nephew  of  a  lord.  He  is  very 
handsome.  He  has  not  a  shilling  to  bless  himself 
with,  and,  to  my  thinking,  is  a  regular  good-for-noth- 
ing. He  sings  like  an  angel,  and  plays  the  piano  so 
your  flesh  crawls.  He  has  heard  that  Lallie's  got  a 
bit  of  money,  which  will  be  hers  when  she  marries, 
and  he  is  after  her.     You  have  not  yet  seen  Eulalie  ?'• 

"  No — yes.     Was  she  not — ?" 

"No;  I  remember,  She  went  to  the  top  of  the 
street  before  you  came,  and  she  took  tea  with  a  neigh- 
bor. She  got  back  a  few  minutes  ago,  and  is  prob- 
ably dressed  by  this  time  to  receive  Brakenston.  I 
wish  to  heaven  he  would  keep  away  !" 

"  Is — is  she  fond  of  him  ?" 


Stage-Struck.  89 

"  Fond  of  him  ?  Why,  I  had  not  thought  about  it. 
I  suppose  she  is;  but  that  is  not  the  question.  I  don't 
like  him;  neither  does  Belle;  no  more  does  Annie.  We 
distrust  him,  and  always  feel  as  if  he  was  not  the 
right  sort.  Without  knowing  anything  positively 
against  him,  we  still  have  taken  a  dislike  to  him.  But 
you  shall  see  him  and  tell  us  your  opinion.  We  have 
a  little  bit  of  supper  every  night,  and  he  usually  drops 
in." 

"  Mrs.  Edmonds,  would  you  mind  talking  a  little 
with  me  now?  It's — it's  about  my  room,  my  board, 
and  so  on.  Excuse  my  changing  the  subject  and 
coming  to  business  so  abruptly,  but  I  shall  feel  more 
comfortable  when  everything  is  arranged.  The 
price — " 

**  My  love,  I  wish  I  could  invite  you  to  stay  and  be 
one  of  my  own;  but  you  see  how  it  is,  and — and, 
thinking  it  all  over,  you  will  pay  me  only  two  pounds 
ten  a  week,  everything  included.  Surely  that  is  not 
dear  ?" 

"Two  pounds  ten  !"     Annabel  was  aghast. 

"  Dirt-cheap,  my  dear,  for  London  during  the  sea- 
son; and  besides,  the  comforts  of  a  home  which  will 
be  yours.     I  really  cannot  take  less." 

Annabel  was  staggered,  but  felt  thankful  that  she 
would  not  have  to  remain  long  in  this  expensive  city. 
With  an  inward  sigh  she  succumbed  to  the  inevitable. 
She  turned  to  Mrs.  Edmonds,  assuring  her  that  she 
was  quite  willing  to  accept  the  terms.  Then  she  told 
her  about  her  mother;  when  she  was  expected,  and 
concluded  all  of  her  arrangements  with  the  exactitude 
and  solemnity  of  a  little  housewife. 


QO  Stage-Struck, 

Mrs.  Edmonds  was  delighted,  but  most  regretful 
that  her  guest  was  to  stay  so  short  a  time. 

Little  Annie's  voice  was  heard  outside  the  door, 
shyly  asking  if  she  might  not  come  in.  She  an- 
nounced that  supper  was  ready,  and  they  started  to- 
wards the  room.     Annie  at  once  began  chattering. 

"  Brak  is  there,  and  he  has  got  on  a  new  necktie. 
Lallie  is  mad  at  him,  and  won't  speak.  ''She's  got 
on  her  blue  silk  dress,  and  Tramp's  in  her  lap.  I  am 
awful  hungry,  but  Belle  won't  get  the  beer  till  you 
come.  She's  got  the  toothache,  and  says  she  will 
have  her  tooth  pulled  out  to-night  if  you  will  let  her." 

"  My  dear  Annie,  will  you  stop  chattering  ?  I  can't 
hear  myself  think.     Is — is  there  any  cress  ?" 

"  Lots,  as  green  as  anything ;  and  Belle's  got  a 
pasty  from  the  top  of  the  street." 

"  I  hope  you  are  hungry."  This  to  Annabel.  "  I 
do  think  supper  the  nicest  meal  of  the  day,  especially 
in  hot  weather.  The  Farranti  always  wanted  hers 
after  the  theatre,  and  we  easily  got  into  the  habit." 

They  were  at  the  lower  stairs  by  this  time,  and 
Mrs.  Edmonds  ceased  speaking. 

Annabel  responded.  "Yes,  I  am  hungry.  And 
the  Farranti  ?  Do  you  not  remember  that  you  were 
to  tell  me  all  about  her  ?" 

"My  love,  yes;  but  not  to-night,  for  a  thousand 
worlds.  I  am  that  upset  and  queer-like  that  I  could 
not  command  my  feelings.  To-morrow,  dear,  you 
shall  see  all  of  her  things — her  crowns,  sashes,  music, 
and  so  on.  The  poor  thing  !  Ah  !  she  wasn't  always 
happy,  and — and —  Bless  me  !" — brushing  away  a 
tear — "I  can't  speak  of  her  to-day  without  crying. 


Stage-Struck, 


91 


She  has  been  running  in  my  mind  to  that  extent,  I — " 
"Pray,  forgive  me,  dear  madam.  I  won't  speak  of 
her  again  until  you  do.  But  she  was  so  lovely,  and  I 
am  so  interested  in  her.  You  know" — naively — "  I 
am  going  to  be  a  singer,  too — a  great  artist ;  and  I 
am  anxious  to  know  how  they  all  have  looked,  how 
they  sang,  and  everything  about  them." 
"Dear  heart,  so  you  shall." 

Then  the  door  of  the  drawing-room,  was  flung 
open,  and  Belle,  with  a  smiling  face,  drew  Annabel 
towards  her. 


CHAPTER  XL 

By  this  time  it  was  night.  The  room  looked  very 
tidy  and  cosy.  There  was  a  lamp  on  the  table,  which 
gave  a  subdued  light  and  unsubdued  smell  of  petro- 
leum. 

In  one  corner  of  the  room  sat  a  fair  girl,  with  a 
gentleman  by  her  side.  She  had  a  skin  of  blush-roses, 
masses  of  yellow  hair,  soft  blue  eyes,  and  a  dollish 
face.  A  gown  of  pale-blue  silk,  rather  ill-fitting 
covered  a  very  plump  figure;  wax-white  hands  glis- 
tened with  cheap  rings;  and  in  her  lap  there  was  a 
mongrel.  He  had  every  appearance  of  ease  and  non- 
chalance.    The  young  lady  half  rose  and  smiled. 

**My  daughter  Eulalie,"  said  Mrs.  Edmonds,  "and 
— and  Mr.  Brakenston,  Miss  Almont." 

So  this  was  "  Lallie,"  and  this  was  **  Brak." 

Annabel  bowed  gravely,  and  looked  at  the  young 
man  a  second  time.  He  was  very  handsome,  but,  she 
thought,  sleepy-looking,  and  one  of  those  persons  who 
delight  in  doing  nothing  and  accomplish  the  task  to 
perfection.  He  bowed  very  low  with  a  sulky  inclina- 
tion of  his  head.  When  he  was  being  presented.  Belle 
laughed. 

"  As  you  are  up,  you  may  as  well  come  to  the  table. 
We  are  all  starved;  aren't  we,  mother?  Lallie.  do 
come,  and  don't  be  in  such  a  pet." 


Stage-Struck.  93 

"What's  the  matter,  Eulalie  ?"  said  her  mother. 

"Nothing." 

"Nothing?" 

Mrs.  Edmonds  looked  curiously  at  her.  "You  are 
looking  smart,  I  must  say." 

That  was  enough  for  Eulalie.  "Smart!  I  should 
think  I  am.  Why  shouldn't  I  be  ?  I  have  dressed  for 
2ifete  at  the  Botanical  Gardens,  and — and  Brak,  like  a 
stupid,  has  forgotten  the  tickets!  He  says  that  he 
left  them  in  a  hansom  with — " 

"  With  a  bouquet  and  some  bonbons,"  interrupted 
the  young  man.  "  How  could  I  help  it?  A  fellow 
came  up  and  stopped  me  with  such  a  precious  bit  of 
news  that  I  forgot  all  about  them.  Come,  Lallie" — 
turning  to  the  girl,  and  looking  in  a  half-mortified 
way  towards  Annabel — "  don't  be  cross,  and  we  will 
all  go  to  the  opera  to-morrow  night." 

"  The  opera  ?" 

"Yes;  Covent  Garden." 

"  I'd  rather  go  to  Cremorne." 

"You,  Lallie!"  Mrs.  Edmonds'  voice  rose  to  a 
shriek. 

"Well,"  Lallie  continued,  "just  to  see  once  what  it 
looks  like;  or  to  the  Alhambra.  I  love  a  ballet;  but 
the  opera!  It's  sure  to  be  *  Martha '  or  *■  William  Tell.* 
One  bores  me,  the  other  sends  me  to  sleep." 

The  young  man  seemed  greatly  delighted  even  to 
hear  her  speak  a  word.     He  got  up  eagerly. 

"  You  shall  go  to  any  theatre  your  mamma  likes. 
If  she  says  the  Alhambra,  why,  Alhambra  it  shall  be." 

Lallie  was  mollified.  She  smiled  with  content,  and 
slipped  into  her  place  at  the  table. 


94  Stage-Struck. 

What  a  gay  little  supper  it  was!  Belle  forgot  her 
toothache.  Brak  asked  if  he  might  have  a  cigarette. 
Then  he  sat  down  to  a  little  cottage  Broadwood  in  the 
corner,  and  commenced  playing — playing  "  quite  like 
a  professional,"  as  Mrs.  Edmonds  said.  He  swept  his 
fingers  over  the  keys,  bringing  forth  fragments  of 
sweetest  melody.  He  wandered  into  a  reverie  of 
Schumann;  then,  as  they  were  all  ready  to  cry,  he 
dashed  into  the  Chopin  mazurka,  "Aimes  moi;"  and 
finished  his  performance  by  singing  one  of  De  Lara's 
delicious  songs,  as  well — almost  as  well  as  the  com- 
poser could  himself.  In  the  midst  of  the  music,  the 
curtain  was  rattled  from  without  most  vigorously. 

"Mrs.  Edmonds!  Mrs.  Edmonds!  Are  you  at 
home  ?    May  we  come  in  ?" 

The  window  had  been  opened  after  the  supper,  and 
Annabel  saw  an  old  head  peering  in. 

"  Gracious  Heavens!  it's  Uncle  Johnny.  Come  in  ? 
Of  course." 

Annie,  who  had  recognized  the  voice,  had  already 
opened  the  door.  A  slight,  middle-aged  Irishman, 
with  twinkling  eyes  and  beardless  face,  came  forward, 
followed  by  a  taller  man.  The  latter  was  round- 
headed,  heavy-featured,  with  a  ruddy  and  storm- 
beaten  complexion,  light  laughing  eyes,  a  thick  mot- 
tled mustache,  a  cheery  voice,  and  a  rolling  gait. 
His  dress  was  peculiar:  his  trousers  were  abnormally 
wide;  his  coat  was  abnormally  creased;  his  shirt  was 
abnormally  white,  but  frayed;  and  a  black  satin  stock 
which  he  wore  round  his  neck  was  abnormally  large. 

"Uncle  Johnny,"  said  Mrs.  Edmonds,  "indeed,  this 
is  an  honor;  and  Lord  Henry  Ascot,  too!     I  thought 


Stage-Struck.  95 

that  you  had  quite  forgotten  us.  It  is  an  age  since 
you  were  last  here." 

"My  dear  lady,  you  are  right;  but,  considering  that 
I  have  just  arrived  from  India,  it  isn't  strange  that 
you  haven't  seen  me  before.  I've  been  away  for  ten 
months;  but  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  are  all  looking 
chirpy.  Belle,  Eulalie,  little  Annie.  And  whom  have 
we  here?  A  stranger?"  He  boldly  surveyed  Annabel, 
taking  her  in  from  top  to  toe. 

"Yes,  your  lordship,  a  stranger.  One — ahem — but 
one  of  the  family  for  a  little  while.  Miss  Almont, 
allow  me  to  introduce  Lord  Henry  Ascot." 

Annabel  rose  and  curtsied,  blushing  deeply.  The 
gentleman  stared  at  her.  Stared  perhaps  is  not  a 
polite  word,  but,  as  that  is  what  he  did,  his  action  can- 
not be  otherwise  expressed. 

"  American  ?"  he  asked,  still  taking  her  in. 

She  smiled  a  "Yes."  How  nice  to  be  taken  for  an 
American  at  once! 

"  Have  you  been  in  London  long  ?" 

"  I  arrived  to-day,  at  five  o'clock." 

"No!  By  Jove,  that  is  doing  things  up  in  a 
hurry!" 

Eulalie  broke  in.  "  You  have  interrupted  the  music, 
and—" 

"And,  I  say,  it's  rude,"  said  Brak,  coming  up. 
"  How  are  you,  Johnny?  and  you,  Ascot  ?  I  am  glad 
to  see  you." 

Uncle  Johnny  looked  at  the  table,  and  said,  "  My 
dear,  I  just  came  to  take  you  out  to  supper." 

"  Supper  !  Why,  we  have  just  finished,"  said  Mrs. 
Edmonds.     "Will  you  have  something?" 


96  Stage-Struck, 

"  Faith,  I  don  t  mind  if  I  do.  What  do  you  say, 
Ascot,  to  a  bite  of  something  ?" 

Belle  was  happy.  Her  special  pleasure  seemed  to 
be  in  helping  people  and  making  them  eat. 

In  honor  of  two  such  guests,  Mrs.  Edmonds  thought 
of  the  contents  of  the  buffet.  A  tub  of  Norwegian 
anchovies  was  brought  forth,  a  bottle  of  Burgundy, 
and  some  olives,  which  added  greatly  to  the  sumptu- 
ous air  of  the  feast. 

Uncle  Johnny  set  the  example,  and  Lord  Henry 
helped  himself  with  right  good  will. 

Annabel  was  slightly  surprised.  She  had  heard  of 
lords  and  peers,  but  she  had  always  supposed  them 
different  from  other  human  beings — not  exactly 
different,  but  not  quite  the  same.  This  gentleman 
looked  like  the  tall-hatted  pilot  at  New  York,  and 
there  was  no  false  pride  about  him.  He  was  hungry, 
and  ate  with  an  excellent  appetite  and  no  superfluous 
ceremony. 

While  the  second  supper  was  going  on,  Brak  went 
back  to  the  piano. 

"  That's  right,  my  boy,"  said  Johnny;  "now  give  us 
*  Wearin'  o'  the  Green.'  " 

Brakenston  readily  complied,  and  they  all  com- 
menced humming  an  accompaniment.  Belle,  whose 
toothache  was  quite  a  thing  of  the  past,  even  went  so 
far  as  to  trill  out, 

*'  Oh,  Paddy  dear,  and  did  ye  hear.* " 

Then,  of  course,  everybody  joined  in,  until  Annie's 
shrill  voice  rang  out  higher  than  any  one's,  clear  and 
strong,  two  notes  off  the  key. 


Stage-Struck,  gf 

"Great  Heavens  !"  said  Mrs  Edmonds,  "isn't  that 
child  in  bed  yet  ?" 

This  was  the  first  time  any  one  had  thought  of  the 
hour. 

Annabel  rose  hastily,  saying,  "  I  am  beginning  to 
feel  a  little  tired,  madam.  I  think  I  must  say  good- 
night."    She  nodded  pleasantly  to  everybody. 

Lord  Henry  came  up  to  her.  "Surely  not  going 
Little  Lady!     You  do  not  look  a  bit  used  up." 

She  replied,  "  Really  going." 

Then  he  shook  hands  with  her,  as  though  she  were 
one  of  his  oldest  friends.  Uncle  Johnnny  "my  dear 
child-ed  "  her  at  once,  and  wished  her  pleasant  dreams; 
Mrs.  Edmonds  kissed  her  fondly;  Eulalie  smiled  a 
good-night;  Brak  bowed  very  stiffly;  Tramp  set  up 
a  furious  barking;  and  little  Annie  took  her  hand. 

"  Belle  and  I  are  coming  with  you,"  she  said.  Then 
she  trotted  off  in  the  gravest  way. 

As  the  door  was  opened,  four  cats  bounded  in. 
One  dragged  along  the  remains  of  a  fine  leg  of  mut- 
ton, the  other  three  wildly  disputing  the  spoil. 
Tramp  saw  his  opening  here,  and  sprang  at  the  cats. 

Annabel  left  them  to  settle  it.  Annie  laughed,  and 
Belle  chattered,  as  they  went  up  the  stairs. 

"  What  a  charming  evening  !  Was  she  very  tired  ? 
Did  she  like  Brak's  playing  ?  Wasn't  Uncle  Johnny  a 
dear;  and  could  any  one  be  nicer  than  Lord  Henry  ?" 

Annabel  said  "Yes"  to  everything.  She  bade  them 
good-night,  and  absolutely  tore  off  her  clothing. 
Then  she  sighed,  and,  with  a  brief  and  broken  "  Now 
I  lay  me,"  her  head  sank  upon  her  pillow. 

Some  way,  the  evening,  as  she  thought  it  over,  did 


98  St  age- Struck. 

not  quite  please  her.  Then  she  pondered  on  the  ap- 
pearance of  Lord  Henry,  muttering,  "  It  is  true.  I 
thought  that  they  were  different,  and  he's  just  exactly 
like  any  other  man,  although  perhaps  a  little  kinder 
and  franker.     I  must  say,  however,  I  like  him.*^ 

She  raised  her  head  once  more,  but  she  had  for- 
gotten that  she  was  sleeping  for  the  first  time  in  a 
strange  bed.  Up  she  jumped,  and  commenced  a  per- 
formance which  is  never  omitted  by  American  girls 
under  similar  circumstances.  She  called  the  three 
corners  of  the  room  each  by  the  name  of  one  of  her 
friends,  but  to  that  which  was  nearest  her  heart  she 
gave  no  name.  Then  she  returned  to  her  bed,  and 
stepped  in  backwards,  gazing  intently  at  the  nameless 
corner.  It  is  believed  by  every  American  that  if  this 
ceremony  be  gone  through  properly,  the  true  love  in 
the  then  nameless  heart-corner  will  make  his  appear- 
ance in  a  dream 


CHAPTER     XII. 

A  VOICE  called  at  the  door,  "Are  you  alive  or 
dead  ?" 

Annabel  rubbed  her  eyes,  and  sprang  from  her  bed. 
Who  was  talking?  Surely  not  Brakenston?  Was 
she  still  dreaming  ? 

"  Are  you  alive  or  dead  ?"  The  voice  was  louder 
this  time,  accompanied  by  a  violent  shaking  of  the 
door. 

No,  it  was  no  dream,  and  the  tones  were  Belle's. 
She  remembered  all,  and  went  to  her  door,  which  she 
had  locked  the  night  before. 

The  dark-eyed  girl  came  in. 

"What  is  it  ?"  asked  Annabel,  hastily. 

"  What  is  it  !  Why,  we  positively  thought  that  you 
were  dead.     It's  nearly  eleven  o'clock,  and — " 

"  Eleven  o'clock  !  Impossible  !  Why,  I  have  slept 
all  of  the  night  through,  without  once  waking." 

"  You  must  have  been  pretty  well  fagged.  Don't 
you  want  some  breakfast?  We  finished  ages  ago! 
Will  you  have  yours  now  ?     What  would  you  like  ?" 

"Oh,  anything.  " 

"Tea  or  coffee  ?" 

"Tea." 

"  We  have  bloaters  to-day.     Do  you  like  bloaters  ?** 

Annabel   smiled.     "I  like   anything;   but  I  don't 


lOO  Stage-Struck. 

know  what  a  bloater  is.  I  will  have  just  w'lat  you 
have  had." 

"All  right.     "  I'll  see  to  it  at  once." 

Belle  went  down  three  steps  at  a  time,  carolling 
out  a  bit  of  "  Non  piu  Mesta." 

Annabel  was  delighted.  She  said  to  herself,  "Just 
think  of  being  in  Europe  !  She  hums  '  Non  piu  Mesta ' 
as  naturally  as  I  would  '  When  other  lips  and  other 
hearts.' " 

Belle  had  reached  the  second  flight.  "Accanto  il 
fuoco"  came  floating  back  with  a  little  cadence,  fol- 
lowed by  a  hop — a  decided  hop.  She  had  evidently 
reached  the  "lower  drawering-room." 

Annabel  felt  that  she  must  hasten  her  toilet.  A 
cold  bath  was  most  refreshing.  She  thought  of  don- 
ning di peignoir,  but  decided  not  to.     It  was  so  late. 

How  she  had  slept!  and  her  dreams!  How 
strange,  that  of  all  the  people  she  had  ever  known, 
this  young  man  alone  had  appeared  to  her  !  She 
could  not  quite  remember  what  she  had  dreamt ; 
everything  was  indistinct ;  but  he  was  the  central 
figure,  turning  up  at  every  moment,  and  making  his 
presence  felt  in  the  most  provoking  manner. 

She  brushed  her  long  brown  hair,  which  was  glinted 
with  golden  threads,  and  looked  at  her  reflection  in 
the  glass. 

Not  a  bad  reflection — an  oval-shaped  face,  large 
gray-blue  eyes,  dark  brows  and  lashes,  a  skin  of  satin 
smoothness,  chased  with  the  faintest  pink  flush  in  her 
cheeks.  Her  mouth  was  small,  with  very  red  lips. 
The  whole  face  bespoke  angelic  sweetness,  except 
that  the  corner  of  the  short  upper  lip  gave  evidence 


St  age-Struck.  loi 

of  a  disposition  to  sarcasm.  This  the  girl  herself  had 
often  noticed.  She  looked  long  and  earnestly  at  the 
fair  image  reflected  in  the  glass,  and  then  pondered 
on  her  mouth. 

"I  wish  it  would  not  turn  up  so  much.  Happily, 
my  nose  is  one  to  be  proud  of.  I — I  wonder  if  that 
Brak  thought  me  pretty?  I  am  alone  in  my  room. 
I  presume  I  may  say  what  I  think  to  myself,  and  I 
suppose  I  am  pretty;  but  I  must  hurry  and  dress." 

She  finished  her  toilet  without  more  ado,  and 
went  downstairs. 

Breakfast  was  indeed  welcome.  There  were  eggs  ; 
a  rasher  of  bacon  crisp,  as  crisp  as  possible  ;  the 
famous  bloaters  and  muffins  ;  and  tea — such  tea  as 
one  can  get  only  in  England,  where  the  worst  one 
gets  is  better,  almost,  than  the  best  elsewhere.  Anna- 
bel felt  quite  at  home.  She  rejected  the  small  fish,  as 
she  always  got  the  bones  in  her  throat,  and  life  is  too 
short  to  spend  in  extricating  fish-bones.  She  drank 
her  tea,  chatted  gayly  with  Mrs.  Edmonds,  and  drew 
little  Annie  up  to  her.  Insinuating  a  hot  muffin  and 
some  marmalade  with  serpent-like  persistence  upon 
the  little  girl,  she  finally  induced  her  to  share  the 
breakfast. 

Annie,  nothing  loth  in  this  as  in  everything  else, 
proved  most  companionable.  Mrs.  Edmonds  con- 
tinued chatting  with  great  vigor. 

"After  you  went  to  bed,  my  dear,  we  all  strolled 
down  to  the  Embankment.  Such  a  heavenly  night ! 
I  wished  that  you  had  been  with  us.  Lord  Henry 
thinks  you  simply  beautiful.  He  is  perfectly  aston- 
ished that  you  are  going  to  be  an  opera-singer,  and 


102  Stage-Struck. 

says  that  the  Farranti  would  have  been  alive  to-day 
had  it  not  been  for  the — " 

"Farranti  again."     This  time  smiling. 

"  Oh,  I  mean  to  tell  you  all  about  her  !  You  have 
finished —  Ah,  here's  Tramp.  Mother's  darling 
angel ;  come  here,  the  blessed  sweet !" 

It  is  unnecessary  to  say  to  whom  these  interruptions 
were  addressed.  Tramp  had  a  nature  not  unlike  some 
people  I  have  known.  Should  they  meet  and  part 
ten  times  a  day,  the  ceremony  would  always  be  sweet- 
ened by  affectionate  words  and  abundant  caresses. 

Tramp  had  been  in  his  mistress's  lap  all  the  morn- 
ing, but  ten  minutes  before  he  had  slipped  into  the 
gutter  while  chasing  Thomas,  who  still  managed  to 
excite  his  ire  on  every  possible  occasion. 

He  was  not  as  recklessly  bedaubed  as  on  the  occa- 
sion of  his  presentation  to  Annabel,  but  still  enough 
to  leave  the  mark  of  one  paw  on  Mrs.  Edmonds'  fresh 
print  gown,  and  his  joy  at  being  recognized  by  the 
new  member  of  the  family  knew  no  bounds.  In  fact, 
this  reckless  mongrel  was  as  faithful  as  he  was  filthy. 

"Mother's  darling!  How  gay  he  is!  But  where 
was  I  ?  Ah,  yes.  If  you  have  finished,  we  will  go  to 
the  room  which  the  Farranti  once  occupied.  All  of 
her  things,  poor  dear,  are  there,  and  I  will  tell  you 
all  about  her." 

Adjoining  the  dining-room  was  a  smaller  apart- 
ment. They  went  in  there,  and  Mrs.  Edmonds  drew 
up  the  blind.  There  was  an  old  chest  of  drawers  in 
one  corner,  and  she  directed  her  steps  towards  it.  She 
took  a  key  from  her  ring,  and  attempted  to  open  the 
middle  drawer.     The  key  grated  in  the  lock,  which 


St  age-Struck,  103 

finally  yielded.  As  the  drawer  opened,  a  faint  odor 
of  sandal-wood  stole  from  it. 

Annie  and  Belle  came  forward  with  eager  eyes  but 
hushed  voices.  Annabel  felt  as  though  she  were  en- 
tering a  sanctuary. 

Mrs.  Edmonds  filled  her  arms  with  faded  silks, 
laces,  and  objects  seemingly  of  littU  intrinsic  value. 
She  deposited  the  contents  of  the  drawers  on  the 
bed. 

Annabel  drew  near,  and  looked  on  wistfully.  Mrs. 
Edmonds  was  nearly  overcome.  Her  eyes  dimmed, 
and  a  heavy  mist  obscured  their  blue.  When  the 
things  were  all  deposited  on  the  coverlet,  she  drew 
up  a  chair,  motioning  to  Annabel  to  sit  by  her. 

"Indeed  not.  I  will  stand  and  be  one  of  your  chil- 
dren." Then  she  seated  the  elder  lady  with  infinite 
tenderness,  and  the  others  drew  near. 

"  Belle  next  to  the  bed,"  said  Annie,  "  because  she 
looks  like  auntie  ;  you  next,  and  me  next."  So  she 
arranged  it  all.  "  Me  on  the  outside,  nearest  mamma, 
because  I  love  her  most." 

The  child  sealed  this  avowal  by  a  soft  little  kiss. 
She  was  fully  convinced  that  no  one  loved  her  mother 
as  much  as  she  did,  and  they  let  her  have  her  way. 

Mrs.  Edmonds  began.     "  The  Farranti — " 

There  was  a  piteous  whining  outside. 

"  It's  Tramp.     May  he  come  in  ?" 

Annie's  voice  was  hushed,  but  anxious. 

"Would- you  like  him  here?"  Annabel  looked  at 
Mrs.  Edmonds  as  she  spoke.  "He  can't  do  any 
harm,"  she  said  apologetically,  "so  I  think  we  may 
take  him  in." 


104  St  age-Struck. 

**Here  he  is.  One  more  in  the  room,"  said  Annie; 
and  she  placed  the  mongrel  in  her  mother's  lap. 

"  Now  about  the  Farranti,"  Mrs.  Edmonds  went  on. 
"She  was  always  different  from  everybody  else." 
Mrs.  Edmonds  was  softly  smoothing  Tramp's  silky 
head  as  she  spoke.  "When  only  a  little  thing  she 
went  around  reading  about  singers  in  old  musty 
books,  and  before  she  was  six  years  old  she  attracted 
the  attention  of  every  one  who  came  to  the  house. 
She  took  lessons  on  the  piano,  and  her  master  said 
that  no  one  had  so  sweet  a  voice.  When  she  was  only 
fourteen,  she  was  as  tall  as  Belle,  there,  and  felt  bound 
to  go  on  the  stage  and  sing.  She  sang  at  a  great  con- 
cert—" 

Annabel  interrupted.  "Why,  so  did  I.  I  com- 
menced about  that  age.  Did  she  ever  sing  in  a 
church-choir?"     She  asked  this  anxiously. 

"  Did  she  ever  eat  ?  Naturally  she  sang  in  choirs 
and  out  of  them;  indeed,  I  don't  know  where  she  didn't 
sing.  You  see,  this  was  a  long  time  ago.  Then  she 
went  to  Italy,  and  commenced  studying  with  the  best 
masters.  Old  Romani  in  Florence  taught  her,  and  in 
a  few  months  after  her  arrival  there  she  made  her 
dibut.  She  sang  in  Gluck's  operas,  and  in  'Tancredi;' 
but  to  my  mind  there  never  was  such  a  Romeo.  Why, 
ske  studied  the  part  with  old  Vaccaj  himself  in  Mi- 
lano.  He  raved  over  her  voice,  and  said  that  Romeo 
might  have  been  written  for  her.  She  had  not  a 
single  weak  note,  poor  dear,  and  I  think  I  can  just 
hear  her  now.  *"  Ah^  se  iu  dor  mi  sveglia-ti.'  This 
is  in  the  last  act,  you  know,  where  Juliet  is  dead, 
and—" 


St  age-Struck.  105 

"Yes,  yes;  I  know.     Go  on." 

"  Well,  she  sang  it  like  an  angel.  Vaccaj  used  to 
cry  on  hearing  her.  Then  her  Arsace  in  'Semi- 
ramide'!  It  was  something  wonderful.  She  sang  all 
over  Italy.  She  went  to  Cairo;  and  this  scarf — " 
fumbling  amongst  the  things  on  the  bed — 

"Yes.  Oh,  how  lovely!" — all  in  a  breath.  Annabel 
then  inspected  the  scarf,  which  was  indeed  beautiful. 

Mrs.  Edmonds  continued.  "  This  scarf,  with  a 
lovely  bunch  of  flowers,  was  thrown  to  her  from  the 
royal  box.  The  donor  was  a  great  personage,  and 
it  seemed  that  she  could  not  do  enough  to  show  her 
delight  at  the  Farranti's  singing.  When  the  opera 
was  concluded,  she  sent  for  her  to  come  to  the  royal 
box,  as  they  always  do  to  great  singers;  and  Her 
Highness — she  was  a  Highness,  of  course — presented 
her  with  a  bracelet  set  in  diamonds,  most  valuable, 
my  dear — worth  about  two  hundred  pounds.  Ah, 
that  was  a  happy  night !  The  Farranti  often  spoke  of 
it.  After  singing  with  continued  success,  she  re- 
turned to  Italy,  and  met  Lumley.  He  went  crazy 
over  her,  my  dear,  and  nothing  would  do  but  she 
must  sing  in  London.  She  came  home,  and  made  her 
first  appearance  at  the  Haymarket.  My  dear,  what's 
the  matter?" 

Annabel  interrupted.  "  I — I  should  so  like  to  have 
heard  her.     Was  she  not  a  great  success  ?" 

"  Great  ?  Well,  I  should  say  so,  love.  But  a  strange 
thing  happened.  There  were  so  many  intrigues 
against  her,  and  she  had  so  many  professional  jeal- 
ousies to  contend  with,  that  she  almost  grew  afraid  to 
go   upon   the   stage.     The   kinder   Lumley   was,  the 


io6  St  age -Struck. 

worse  the  other  professionals  treated  her.  It  was 
worry,  fuss,  and  scheming  from  morning  till  night, 
until  the  day  of  her  debut  arrived.  That  night  she 
kept  getting  more  and  more  nervous,  until  finally,  the 
orchestra  having  begun  the  overture,  there  was  no 
help  for  it;  the  opera  must  go  on.  When  she  came 
before  the  footlights,  she  commenced  trembling,  and 
— would  you  believe  it,  love  ? — she  was  that  overcome 
by  emotion  that  she  fell  in  a  heap  on  the  stage,  in 
such  a  faint  that  ^every  one  thought  she  was  dead. 
Shall  I  ever  forget  it  ?  Well,  we  finally  brought  her 
to,  and,  after  a  short  interval,  the  opera  went  on. 
Fancy  any  one  being  so  nervous!  The  public  waited 
breathlessly,  and  when  she  reappeared,  such  applause 
was  heard  as  would  give  courage  to  even  a  bad  singer. 
When  she  began,  and  they  heard  her  voice,  I  thought 
the  house  would  come  down.  It  was  a  great  success; 
none  ever  had  a  greater.  She  kept  on  singing  here 
until  her  health  gave  way.  She  was  heart-broken  with 
the  continual  struggle — scenes  with  managers,  scenes 
with  artists,  jealousy,  intrigue,  and  I  don't  know  what. 
Poor  dear!"  Mrs.  Edmonds  wiped  away  a  tear  and 
fondled  Tramp. 

"  Has  she  been  dead  long?" 

*'  Nearly  eight  years,  and  this  is  the  first  time  a 
stranger  has  ever  heard  as  much  from  me  about  her." 

Mrs.  Edmonds  had  perhaps  forgotten  that  no  one 
had  ever  been  with  her  above  ten  minutes  without 
hearing  the  same  tale. 

"To-day,  in  London,"  she  went  on,  "  they  say  that 
no  one  has  ever  seen  such  talent  and  beauty  united. 
All  of  these  things" — and  she  pointed   to  the  heaped 


St  age-Struck.  107 

bed — "are  only  a  drop  in  the  bucket  compared  with 
what  she  had.  I  keep  these.  I  don't  know  why;  but 
because  she  did,  I  suppose.  When  she  was  unhappy, 
she  used  to  look  them  over,  and  say,  *  Do  you  see  this  ? 
Can  you  ever  forget  that  night  how  I  sang,  how  gay 
we  were,  or  the  success  I  had  ? '  " 

Mrs.  Edmonds  sobbed  and  ceased  talking,  and  An- 
nabel looked  with  quickened  pulse  and  bedewed  eyes 
on  these  speaking  relics  of  this  great  singer,  who,  ac- 
cording to  Mrs.  Edmonds,  would  have  made  Grassini 
rise  in  jealous  frenzy  from  her  tomb. 

There  were  Roman  scarves  sufficient  to  cover  every 
sofa  and  chair  of  the  largest  drawing-room  in  London; 
and  dozens  of  sashes,  enough  for  the  entire  female 
population  of  a  village  in  the  Abruzzi.  There  were 
nurses*  coiffures,  and  laurel  wreaths  with  floating 
streamers,  on  which  the  golden-lettered  sonnets  still 
sighed  adoration.  There  was  a  gilded  and  battered 
diadem  in  hollow  mockery  of  that  Fame  whose  king- 
dom is  as  ephemeral  as  the  metal  circlet  which  crowns 
his  brow.  There  was  a  garish  chatelaine  of  stones, 
their  lustre  dimmed  in  their  tarnished  tinsel.  There 
were  heaps  of  trinkets  and  ornaments,  and  dried  bou- 
quets in  chased  holders.  There  were  fichus  and  flesh- 
ings, stockings  and  sandals:  all  old,  faded,  tawdry 
tokens  of  many  a  feverish  hour  of  triumph  in  the 
roseate  past. 

Annabel's  hand  moved  caressingly  over  the  mass. 
She  drew  a  discolored  ribbon  through  her  fingers, 
on  which  was  embroidered,  in  golden  letters,  "  Serata 
Vonore  delta  distintissima  bella^  adorata  FarrantiT 

"  Ah,  when  I  look  at  all  of  these  things,"  said  Mrs. 


io8  St  age-Struck, 

Edmonds,  ''and  think  of  you  so  young,  so  beautiful, 
going  in  for  such  a  life,  it  breaks  my  heart." 

Annabel  looked  again  at  the  bed,  and  said,  with 
profound  surprise,  "  What  ?  Could  she  have  been  un- 
happy ?" 

"  Ah,  my  dear,  she  was  one  of  the  successful  ones, 
yet  her  head  drooped  with  untimely  sorrow.  She  was 
a  most  unhappy  woman — a  blighted  being."  Then 
she  burst  into  tears,  continuing,  "  And,  like  most  great 
singers,  her  life,  the  whole  of  her  career,  is  summed 
up  by  these" — pointing  again  to  the  bed. 

At  this  moment  Tramp,  who  had  surreptitiously 
slipped  away  from  Mrs.  Edmonds'  knees  and  jumped 
upon  the  coverlet,  was  discovered  trying  to  make  a 
lunch  out  of  the  sacred  relics  of  the  departed  prima 
donna.  All  screamed  with  horror,  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  a  cheery  voice  which  was  heard  calling  in  the 
entry. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"Where  are  you,"  the  voice  said,  "for  goodness' 
sake  ?  I  have  been  ringing  till  the  bell's  busted — or 
the  rope,  any  way.     Where  are  you  all  ?" 

"It's  Captain  Jameson!"  gasped  Mrs.  Edmonds; 
and  they  all  hurried  out,  to  find  him  in  the  drawing- 
room  fussing  and  fuming,  with  the  broken  bell-rope 
in  his  hand. 

"Good-by.  I  am  off,"  he  said.  "Mrs.  Edmonds, 
take  good  care  of  this  child,  not  because  she's  the 
only  one,  but  because  her  loss  would  break  up  the 
family  set.  I  shall  be  in  town  next  week.  In  the 
mean  time,  have  a  good  time,  and  don't  forget  the 
captain.  Miss  Annabel,  I  hope  you  will  enjoy  Lon- 
don, and  have  good  health,  and  that  in  a  short  time 
we  shall  see  the  mother  here.  Should  you  want  any- 
thing— anything  whatever — let  me  know,  at  my  Liver- 
pool address,  and  it  shall  be  forthcoming.  Lunch- 
eon!"— this  to  an  invitation  from  Mrs.  Edmonds — 
"luncheon!  Why,  if  Nature  didn't  keep  my  breath- 
ing apparatus  going,  I'd  have  to  pass  in  my  checks. 
I  wouldn't  have  time  to  run  the  machinery  myself, 
that's  sure.  I  never  was  so  hurried  before  in  all  the 
course  of  my  life— with  this  heat,  too!  I  should  not 
be  surprised,  everything  is  so  hurried,  were  even  the 
blood  to  rush  to  my  head;  I  am  in  such  a  stew.     But 


no  Stage-Struck. 

Americans  must  be  looked  after,  and  they  all  ask  for 
me.  It's  flattering,  but  it's  awful.  Well,  good-by 
again.  Halloa,  Tramp!  You  here  ?  And  Thomas  ? 
Come,  Annie,  kiss  the  captain,  and  he  will  be  off. 
Good-by.     Ta-ta!     Good-by." 

The  gentleman  went  out  as  he  had  come  in,  like  a 
tornado.  But  no  sooner  had  he  left  the  house  behind 
him  than  he  lit  a  cigar,  and  leisurely  strolled  to  the 
top  of  the  street.  The  worthy  captain  had,  indeed, 
not  exaggerated  when  he  said  that  his  time  was 
passed  in  looking  after  Americans,  though  it  is  true 
he  had  spent  the  morning  playing  billiards,  and  his 
next  pressing  engagement  had  been  to  take  a  drink 
at  the  American  bar  in  the  Strand,  where  he  was  now 
returning  to  meet  a  California  millionaire. 

Annabel  wrote  long  letters  home  after  luncheon, 
and  was  just  finishing  her  last  ten-paged  epistle  when 
Mrs.  Edmonds  appeared. 

"Something  for  you,  love.  A  box  at  the  opera, 
Covent  Garden." 

"  Me  ?    What,  not  Mr.—" 

"  Yes,"  she  coolly  replied.  "I  sent  a  little  note  to 
Mr.  Gye.  He's  a  prince  of  managers,  dear,  and  he  re- 
turned the  box  at  once,  with  his  compliments.  So  you 
may  go  to-night  to  'Traviata '  with  Adelina  Patti,  and 
you  will  be  sure  to  enjoy  it." 

Annabel  blushed.  She  had  almost  said  "Brakenston" 
outright.  This  was  hardly  strange,  for  he  had  spoken 
of  the  opera.  How  was  she  to  think  of  any  one  else  ? 
She  thanked  Mrs.  Edmonds  with  genuine  sincerity. 
Covent  Garden!  At  last  she  was  to  see  it.  She 
scarcely  dined,  and  was  as  excited  as  on  the  occasion 


Stage-Struck.  1 1 1 

of  her  first  appearance  as  a  church-choir  singer  at  a 
public  concert  in  La  Crosse. 

Brakenston  came  in  after  dinner  with  a  box  for  the 
Princess's.  As  it  was  not  for  the  Alhambra,  Eulalie 
decided  on  going  to  the  opera;  so  the  party  set  out, 
leaving  Mrs.  Edmonds  and  Annie  at  home. 

Lai  lie  split  her  gloves  as  they  were  en  route^  and 
they  had  to  drive  to  a  shop  in  Regent  Street  to  get 
another  pair,  which  made  a  little  detour  in  their  jour- 
ney. 

Annabel  had  never  before  seen  such  a  sight  as  the 
Haymarket  at  night.  Numbers  of  women,  apparently 
intoxicated,  roamed  about.  Some  were  old,  and  some 
seemed  quite  children.  They  all  looked  haggard  and 
wan,  as  though  the  streets  were  the  only  home  they 
had  ever  known.  They  were  dressed  much  alike. 
Ragged  skirts  and  tattered  shawls;  paper  flowers  on 
debauched  and  degraded  hats,  which  had  a  recent  air 
of  the  neighboring  dustbin;  alpaca  petticoats  with 
dangling  ribbons  once  rose-pink  or  heavenly  blue, 
now  discolored  with  stains  of  gin  or  beer;  shoes  re- 
duced to  sieves;  reckless  designing  flounces,  gathered 
in  shame  and  fashioned  for  filth, — all  this  breathed  an 
e?tsemble  which  struck  a  chill  to  Annabel's  heart,  and 
she  asked  herself,  "Is  this  the  London  of  which  I 
have  heard  so  much  ?" 

When  they  reached  the  theatre,  the  opera  had  be- 
gun. She  found  it  difficult  to  realize  that  she  was  so 
near  the  scene  through  which  she  had  just  passed. 
Here  everything  charmed  her  eye  and  delighted  her 
sense  of  the  beautiful.  Around  her  were  the  wealth 
and  beauty  of  the  world's  metropolis;  but  what  struck 


112  Stage-Struck. 

her  most  was  that  all  were  dressed  as  if  they  were 
going  to  a  ball. 

At  the  moment  they  came  in  there  was  a  slight 
murmur,  and  all  eyes  were  turned  to  the  royal  box. 
Annabel  saw  a  lady  entering  a  loge  at  the  other  side 
of  the  house. 

"  Look,  look  !"  said  Belle  ;  "  the  princess.  Isn't  she 
lovely  ?" 

The  lady  on  whom  all  eyes  were  fixed  was  a  slender 
woman.  She  wore  a  blue  gown,  profusely  trimmed 
with  lace,  and  her  bouquet  was  of  narcissus  and  ste- 
phanotis.  Annabel  noticed  that  she  had  regular  fea- 
tures, dove-like  eyes,  and  an  expression  combining 
graciousness  and  sweetness  with  dignity.  She  was 
indeed  a  lovely  woman.  By  her  side  was  the  prince, 
a  heavily  bearded  man,  with  a  handsome  face,  full 
clear  eyes,  and  a  genial  good-natured  look.  So  these 
were  England's  future  king  and  queen.  Her  interest 
turned  to  a  feeling  of  pity.  Every  opera-glass  was 
directed  towards  the  royal  box  ;  and  she  felt  sorry  for 
its  occupants,  for  their  future  subjects  stared  as  if 
they  were  looking  at  prize  animals  in  a  show. 

"  I  am  sure  I  should  not  like  it,"  said  she,  turning 
to  Belle.     "  It  must  hurt  their  feelings  dreadfully." 

"  Like  it !"  echoed  the  young  lady.  "  I  don't  sup- 
pose they  care  ;  they  are  so  accustomed  to  it.  They 
are  always  at  the  opera  ;  everybody  likes  to  see  them. 
Once  I  was  quite  close  to  the  princess,  and  she  smiled 
at  me.  I  have  loved  her  ever  since.  It  was  at  2ifite  in 
the  Botanical  Gardens.  Oh,  here's  Patti  !  What  a 
gown  !" 

Annabel  felt  dizzy  to  see  so  many  celebrities  all  at 


St  age-Struck.  113 

once.  There  she  sat,  opposite  a  real  prince  and  prin- 
cess, in  Covent  Garden,  and  her  favorite  opera  was 
being  sung  by  Patti  !  No,  it  was  almost  too  good 
to  be  true. 

Then  the  glorious  notes  of  the  prima  donna  rang 
out.  High  above  orchestra,  chorus,  and  principals, 
this  velvet-toned  voice  soared  aloft ;  then  a  very  cas- 
cade of  golden  tones  came  falling,  falling  like  precious 
jewels,  each  one  a  gem  of  purity  and  beauty.  Her 
diamonds  ran  like  rivers  of  light  over  her  corsage  ;  and 
when  she  came  to  the  footlights  to  sing  the  *'  Brin- 
disi,"  she  threw  up  her  glass,  spilling  the  wine,  which 
streamed  away  quite  down  to  the  heads  of  the  orches- 
tra. 

"  Too  good  a  brand  to  be  wasted  like  that,"  said 
Brak,  coolly,  deliberately  reading  the  etiquette  with 
the  aid  of  his  glass. 

"  I  wish  I  had  some,"  said  Lallie,  laconically. 

"  I  trembled  for  the  gown,"  said  Belle. 

"And  you  ?"  said  Brak,  turning  to  Annabel. 

"  I — I  thought  of  nothing  but  the  singing." 

He  looked  at  her  curiously.  Her  face  was  lit  up, 
and  she. seemed  to  forget  everything  but  the  stage. 

The  house  rang  with  applause,  and  even  the  royal- 
ties were  forgotten  for  the  queen  of  the  hour.  Anna- 
bel sank  in  her  seat,  a  prey  to  violent  emotion.  This 
was  singing  such  as  she  had  never  before  heard. 
Brakenston  alone  seemed  indifferent,  and  kept  his 
eyes  fixed  on  Annabel,  who  sat  absorbed  and  uncon- 
scious of  his  gaze.  The  curtain  fell  on  the  first  act. 
There  was  a  murmur  of  voices,  and  he  seized  this  op- 
portunity to  address  her. 


114  Stage-Struck. 

"  Do  you  like  the  opera  ?  It's  a  great  favorite  now  ; 
and  to  think  that  it  was  almost  a  failure  the  first  night 
in  Venice  !" 

**  Yes,  I  love  it,"  she  answered. 
,    "  Love  ?     That    is    a    strong    word."      He    spoke 
pleasantly. 

"  By  the  way,  I  have  not  thanked  you  for  last  even- 
ing's pleasure.  You  play  magnificently,  and  sing  so 
beautifully." 

"  Humph !  nothing  particular  ;  there  are  many  in 
the  world  bound  to  be  nonentities,  and  I  help  to  make 
up  the  number.  I  suppose  that  I  am  a  fair  amateur. 
Do  you  think  Patti  handsome  ?" 

"  Yes,  very  ;  such  splendid  eyes." 

"  Fine  eyes  ;  but  she  is  not  quite  like  the  genuine 
Violetta, — Marguerite  Gautier, — I  should  say." 

"  Not  the  genuine  ?    Why,  how  can  one  tell  ?" 

"  Oh,  easily  ;  I  have  a  portrait  of  the  real  one.  She 
was  tall,  slender,  with  raven  black  hair,  dark  eyes,  an 
oval  face,  and,  strange  to  say,  an  innocent  look  which 
Patti  has  not  been  able  to  catch.  But  does  it  interest 
you  to  hear  about  Dumas'  Camellia  Lady?" 

"  Indeed  it  does.     Pray  tell  me  all  about  her." 

"Well,  you  know,  she  really  existed.  Her  name 
was  Alphonsine  Plessis,  and  she  is  buried  in  the  ceme- 
tery of  Montmartre,  in  Pa,ris.  To  the  left  of  a  shaded 
avenue  is  her  tomb,  known  as  that  of  La  Dame  aux 
Camelias.  She  really  lived  out  her  own  sad  life  and 
died  before  her  second  life  in  Dumas  fils'  world- 
renowned  romance.  As  you  know,  she  is  Marguerite 
Gautier  in  the  story,  but  the  tomb  bears  her  real  name. 
I  felt  some  curiosity  about  her  when  the  guide  pointed 


Stage-Struck,  115 

out  a  bouquet  of  fresh  white  camellias  lying  on  the 
marble  slab.  I  said  to  him,  *  Oh,  then  there  is  still 
some  one  who  has  not  forgotten  her  ?'     He  replied, 

*  For  many  years  an  old  man  has  come  here,  on  each 
anniversary  of  her  death.  He  always  brings  a  fresh 
bouquet  of  camellias,  which  he  places  on  her  tomb,  and 
before  he  goes  away  he  gives  money  to  provide  oil  for 
the  lamp  which  burns  continually  to  the  Virgin's 
image  overhead,  and  to  buy  fresh  flowers  to  decorate 
her  grave.  He  seems  so  sad,  and  cries  so,  that  it 
must  be  some  one  who  loved  her  very  much.' 

**  We  gave  our  informant  some  money,  and  remarked 
that  it  must  be  a  iriste  fate  to  be  always  showing  the 
graves  of  distinguished  dead.     *  Yes,'  he  answered  ; 

*  but  near  the  anniversary  of  her  death  it  keeps  me 
busy  showing  this  one  alone.  Even  I  feel  touched 
when  old  and  young,  grave  and  gay,  come  to  see  and 
weep  over  it ;  and  I  seem  to  know  at  once  by  instinct 
those  who  wish  for  the  tomb  of  the  Camellia  Lady.* 

"  This  story  always  comes  into  my  mind  when  I 
hear  *  La  Traviata.'  Poor  thing !  *  she  loved  not 
wisely,  but  too  well.'  Conspicuous  on  her  tomb  were 
wreaths  of  immortelles  and  several  bouquets.  I  took 
away  a  bit  of  immortelle  and  placed  it  beside  her  pic- 
ture.    Sentimental,  wasn't  it  ?" 

Before  Annabel  could  answer.  Angel,  who  had 
entered  the  box  unperceived,  and  who  had  caught  the 
last  words  of  the  story,  broke  in — 

"What  have  you  two  been  saying  about  her  ?" 

Brak  looked  surprised  at  this  interruption,  and 
Annabel  hastily  presented  her  friend.  He  was  at 
home  with  them  in  a  moment. 


Ii6  St  age-Struck. 

"So,"  said  he  to  Brak,  "you,  too,  were  a  victim?  ' 
He  spoke  scoffingly.  "That  old  humbug  knows  how 
to  play  upon  one's  feelings.  I  was  touched  myself 
at  the  time,  and  squeezed  out  a  few  tears  at  the  rate 
of  a  franc  apiece.  I  know  that  I  gave  him  five  francs 
in  a  burst  of  enthusiasm,  but  I  heard  afterwards  that 
he  was  the  only  one  to  weep — he,  the  old  man  who 
placed  flowers  and  wreaths  of  immortelles  on  her 
tomb." 

Belle  laughingly  remarked  that  Mr.  Angel  was  very 
matter-of-fact. 

"  Matter-of-fact  ?  Well,  when  you  know  the 
French  as  well  as  I  do,  you  will  appreciate  even  this 
tomb-shower's  idea  of  legitimate  commerce.  He 
knows  very  well  that — " 

"  Stop,  stop !"  cried  Annabel.  "  You  shall  not 
shatter  my  idol.  I  am  determined  to  believe  in  La 
Dame  aux  Camdlias  in  spite  of  all  you  say.  Some  part 
of  the  story  must  be  true."  She  spoke  with  great 
warmth,  and  Brakenston  came  to  her  aid. 

"  You  are  quite  right.  The  old  man  may  have 
been  a  humbug;  but  there  is  much  more  truth  than 
fiction  in  the  story.  However,  for  to-night  we  will 
listen  to  *  La  Traviata,'  and  think  of  Verdi's  music, 
Violetta's  charms,  and — " 

"  Patti's  diamonds,"  interrupted  Lallie. 

Mr.  Angel  continued.  "Her  diamonds  any  one 
could  buy;  but  her  voice  simply  laps  over  any  that 
I  have  ever  heard." 

"Speaking  of  voice,  you  must  come  to  see  us," 
said  Annabel,  "and  we  will  have  some  music." 

Angel   took  the   address;    the  day   following   was 


Stage-Struck.  117 

fixed  upon,  and  his  adieux  were  made  as  act  second 
was  about  to  begin. 

Annabel  could  never  quite  define  the  sensations  of 
that  evening.  In  Violetta's  duet  with  Germont  she 
saw  only  an  unhappy  young  creature,  bidding  fare- 
well to  the  only  man  whom  she  had  ever  really  loved, 
and  sacrificing  herself,  her  only  pure  passion,  to  inexor- 
able fate.  It  was  a  supreme  effort  towards  atonement, 
and  her  recognition  of  duty  was  the  first  leaf  budding 
in  her  laurel  of  repentance.  Violetta's  farewell 
brought  tears  to  her  eyes.  The  banquet  was  a  splen- 
did tableau  of  light,  glitter,  and  gayety.  The  scene 
at  the  gaming-table  was  one  of  stirring  reality  ;  and 
the  grand  Jinale  was  sublimely  sung  and  acted.  No 
wonder  that,  while  the  sound  of  the  music  was  still 
vibrating  in  the  air,  the  house  rang  with  unbounded 
applause. 

Belle  and  Lallie  were  very  quiet.  Brakenston  had 
hardly  spoken.  Ever  and  anon  his  eyes  were  irre- 
sistibly attracted  to  Annabel's  face.  In  spite  of  him- 
self, his  glance  constantly  returned  to  her.  He  did 
not  know  why,  but  there  was  something  really  touch- 
ing in  her  innocent  and  heart-whole  absorption  of  the 
opera. 

Brakenston  was  a  curious  instance  of  a  man  of  the 
world  of  the  approved  English  pattern,  who  considers 
sentiment  in  public  misplaced.  Such  a  man  may 
weep  in  private,  and  Brakenston  himself  had  once 
carried  home  a  bit  of  immortelle  from  a  courtesan's 
tomb.  It  is  true  that  he  told  it  of  himself,  but  he 
would  have  been  mortally  offended  had  another 
alluded  to  the  subject.     No  one  must  be  deceived  by 


1 1 8  Stage-Struck. 

the  icy  Briton's  exterior.  He  has  a  heart,  but,  be  it 
large  or  small,  it  is  quite  hidden  from  the  gaze  of  the 
gaping  world,  and  he  rarely  "  wears  it  upon  his  sleeve 
for  daws  to  peck  at." 

The  prelude  to  the  last  act  of  "  La  Traviata"  is  un- 
doubtedly one  of  the  saddest,  most  inspired,  and  most 
touching  pieces  of  music  which  has  ever  been  written. 
The  strings  of  Covent  Garden  orchestra  render  full 
justice  to  this  great  page,  for  one  rarely  hears  such 
playing  as  is  customary  at  this  theatre. 

The  band  was  at  its  best,  and  the  curtain  rose  upon 
the  well-known  scene  with  Violetta  sleeping  in  her 
curtained  bed,  and  Annina  lying  in  the  chair  near  by. 

Patti  is,  in  this  scene,  unapproachable.  Her  voice 
lends  itself  peculiarly  to  the  sometimes  unnatural  but 
always  sympathetic  character  of  Verdi's  music;  the 
sensational  shrieks  and  exaggerated  intervals  find  re- 
deeming grace  in  the  splendid  way  that  she  sings 
them.  In  fact,  her  voice  graciously  harmonizes  with 
everything  in  vocal  music,  even  though  it  be  in  de- 
fiance of  all  rules  of  art.  Violetta  may  die,  scream- 
ing "  O  Gioja"  on  an  upper  B  flat;  but  when  Patti  is 
the  Violetta,  this  seems  so  perfectly  natural  that  no 
one  has  any  fault  to  find. 

Annabel  was  quite  dazed  when  the  opera  was  fin- 
ished. Her  hands  were  almost  blistered  through  ap- 
plauding the  singers.  She  noticed  that  ladies  did  not 
applaud  in  general,  but  this  was  quite  indifferent  to 
her.  She  was  still  American  enough  to  follow  the 
bent  of  her  inclinations,  without  regard  to  what 
others  thought  or  did. 

"  May  I  oUer  you  an  arm  ?" 


Stage-Struck,  119 

She  started.  Brakenston  was  smiling  and  speaking 
gravely.  She  had  put  on  her  cloak,  taken  up  her  fan 
and  opera-glass,  and  now  there  was  nothing  for  her 
but  to  go  home.  She  felt  sorry  that  the  opera  was 
over. 

Belle  and  Lallie  were  already  waiting  at  the  door. 
She  accepted  Brak's  arm,  and  they  walked  on  without 
a  word. 

The  worst  of  going  to  the  theatre  is  the  getting 
home,  etc.  The  lobby  at  Covent  Garden  is  a  trap 
for  concealed  pneumonia,  bronchitis,  and  so  on.  The 
rain  was  pouring  ;  ladies  were  shivering ;  there  was  a 
rushing,  pushing  crowd;  footmen  were  flying  back  and 
forth,  and  were  almost  constantly  screaming,  "  My 
Lady 's  carriage  blocks  the  way." 

A  wind  cold  enough  to  freeze  the  very  marrow  was 
roaring  around  the  vestibule. 

Annabel  shivered,  and  Belle  laughingly  cried  out, 

*'  My  dear,  we  are  used  to  this.  There  is  scarcely  a 
theatre  in  London  which  is  any  better.  I  expect  to 
get  my  death  of  cold  some  time.  Now,  the  clever 
thing  to  do  is  to  come  in  a  carriage,  but  never  keep 
it;  then  rush  out  of  the  house,  and  one  finds  plenty  of 
cabs;  but  take  my  advice,  never  wait  inside  and  hope 
to  get  one." 

Brakenston  led  the  way  to  the  outer  portico.  In 
spite  of  rain,  it  was  safer  being  quite  out  of  doors.  In 
a  few  moments  a  convenient  growler  bore  them  home. 
The  rain  stopped  with  scant  ceremony. 

Lallie  said  ingenuously,  "  I  believe  it  does  it  on 
purpose.  The  bell  no  sooner  rings  down  the  curtain 
on  the  last  act  than  it  begins  to  pour.     I  think  that 


1 20  Stage-Struck. 

nature  is  sometimes,  or  always,  in  league  with  the 
cabbies.  We  have  never  yet  been  able  to  walk  home 
from  the  theatre.  Living  so  near,  it's  a  shame. 
Many's  the  shilling  that  I  have  thrown  away  because 
it  would  rain  at  ten  minutes  past  eleven  the  very 
evening  that  we  were  going  to  the  play." 

"  I  am  very  hungry,"  Belle  observed. 

"  I  should  be  glad  of  a  smoke,"  sighed  Brak. 

"  The  opera  takes  it  out  of  one.  Mother  will  have 
a  good  supper,  I  know."  Eulalie  spoke  with  a  voice 
of  calm  assurance. 

"  I  will  tell  you  the  regulation  meal,"  said  Belle, 
gayly.  "After  Meyerbeer,  a  steak  or  something  hot; 
game,  cheese,  with  quarts  of  wine.  After  Verdi, 
salads,  cold  meat  and  pickles,  with  half-and-half  and 
cheese.  After  Marta  or  Don  Pasquale^  sandwiches, 
cress,  and  soda-water  or  light  beer.  Now  I  must  say 
that  I  like  a  glass  of  bitter  as  well  as — " 

"  Beer!"  said  Lallie,  with  disgust.  "  Thank  Heaven 
that  I  have  the  taste  to  prefer  wine  when  I  can  get  it!" 

"There's  nothing  mean  about  you,  as  we  say  in 
America,"  said  Annabel,  laughing.  "  I  don't  care 
much  for  either  wine  or  beer,  but  I  agree  with  you 
that  an  emotional  opera  is  a  little  wearing  on  one." 

"  On  any  one  who  listens  and  takes  it  to  heart,  as 
you  do,"  interrupted  Brak. 

"  Home  at  last!"  shouted  Belle,  delightedly,  as  they 
drove  up  to  the  door. 

Mrs.  Edmonds,  Annie,  Tramp,  and  the  seven  cats 
were  waiting  for  them, 

Mrs.  Edmonds  drew  Annabel  forward.  "  Well,  love, 
I  hope  you  liked  the  opera.    Touching  story,  is  it  pot  f 


St  age- Struck.  121 

Patti  sings  like  an  angel.  I  do  hope  that  they  had  a 
carpet  on  the  floor  for  the  death-scene.  Just  imagine 
a  Frenchwoman  dying  with  the  luxury  of  a  lace  gown, 
diamond  rings  and  bracelets,  yet  not  even  a  rug  in 
front  of  her  bed,  and  walking  on  the  bare  floor  as  far 
as  her  toilet-table.  I  saw  that  once,  but  I  suppose 
the  prima  donna  had  had  some  falling  out  with  the 
property-man  or  stage-manager,  and  it  was  done  on 
purpose  to  spoil  the  scene  and  put  her  in  a  rage.  You 
are  hungry,  of  course.  There's  a  good  supper:  cold 
meat,  lobster-salad, — I  made  it  myself, — pickles,  some 
cheese,  and  half-and-half,  unless  you  prefer — " 

"  It's  sure  to  be  perfect,"  replied  Annabel. 

"And  I  am  very  hungry,"  Belle  said.  **  Didn't  I  tell 
you  so  ?  The  Farranti  said  that  *  Verdi  took  the  place 
of  curagoa  after  dinner.*  And  she  smiled,  as  a  woman 
always  does  when  she  can  say,  *I  told  you  so.' ' 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

The  days  passed  by  with  little  change.  Angel  paid 
his  promised  visit.  Brakenston  was,  as  usual,  a  con- 
stant visitor.  Lord  Ascot  and  Uncle  Johnny  had 
called  several  times. 

Mrs.  Edmonds'  mind  had  been  undergoing  some 
change.  She  found  Brakenston  each  day  more  agree- 
able; but  she  began  to  doubt  whether,  after  all,  his 
attentions  to  Eulalie  had  been  serious.  Any  way,  he 
was  so  very  easy-going  that,  as  Annie  said,  he  wasn't 
a  man,  "  only  an  eighth  cat." 

Two  weeks  after  Annabel's  arrival,  she  received  a 
letter  from  her  mother.  After  all  sorts  of  home  gos- 
sip and  loving  messages,  the  letter  went  on: 

"  I  sail  positively  on  the  20th.  When  this  reaches 
you  (D.V.),  I  shall  already  be  nearly  at  Queenstown. 
I  do  hope  that  we  shall  have  fine  weather  and  no  ice- 
bergs. You  know  that  June  is  a  favorite  month  for 
them.  How  glad  I  shall  be  to  see  you  again!  Your 
father  sends  such  a  world  of  love.  He  has  abundance 
of  affection,  if  no  other  collateral.  Look  out  for  a 
telegram  from  Queenstown!  I  am  coming  in  the  Spain, 
one  of  the  finest  and  most  comfortable  of  the  steamers 
that  belong  to  the  National  Line.  The  passage,  first 
cabin,  is  cheaper  than  that  of  any  other  trans-Atlantic 
company,  besides  being  equally  safe.    It  is  an  ignoble 


Stage-Struck,  123 

thing  to  say,  but  money  is  now  an  object  with  us,  and 
I  commence  my  trip  by  economizing. 

"  Good-by,  my  love.  God  keep  you,  is  the  prayer 
of  your  ever-affectionate  mother, 

"  Hester  Almont. 
"P.S. — I  add  this  to  say  that  I  think  I  have  said 
everything.     If  I  have  omitted   anything,  you   shall 
know  on  my  arrival.     Again  good-by. 

"  Yours  ever, 

"Mamma." 

There  was  much  excitement  in  the  house  when  it 
was  known  that  Mrs.  Almont  was  probably  so  near 
England.  The  hours  were  counted  until  the  day  ar- 
rived on  which  the  steamer  was  due.  Annabel's  eyes 
filled  with  tears  of  joy  when  a  little  yellow  envelope 
was  put  into  her  hand.  She  opened  it,  and  said 
breathlessly, 

"Mother  has  come,  and  I  am  to  meet  her  at  the 
station.     Who  will  accompany  me  ?" 

"  I,"  said  Belle. 

"  Yes,  Belle  shall  go,"  said  Mrs.  Edmonds.  "When 
will  Mrs.  Almont  get  here  ?" 

"To-morrow,  about  four.  I  am  to  have  another 
message  from  Liverpool." 

"Belle  shall  go  with  you;  for — Lord  love  us! — she 
knows  her  way  about  London  as  well  as  about  her 
own  pocket." 

It  was  thus  arranged,  and  the  following  day  the 
young  couple  stood  on  the  great  platform  at  Euston 
Station.  How  Annabel's  heart  beat,  as  she  saw  a 
well-known  form  descend  from  one  of  the  carriages  ! 


1 24  Stage-Struck, 

Quickly  she  flew  into  her  mother's  arms.  Belle  was 
presented,  and  the  luggage  was  claimed,  as  there  was 
no  amiable  Jameson  this  time  to  attend  to  them.    ' 

Mrs.  Almont  was  a  handsome  woman.  She  was 
fair,  tall,  and  slender.  Her  hair  was  so  long  and 
thick,  and  her  head  was  so  small,  that  there  was  scarce 
place  on  it  for  the  whole  of  the  mass.  It  curled,  too, 
and  rippled  and  waved  away  from  the  white  parting. 
It  always  attracted  a  second  glance,  and  to  this  she 
never  demurred,  for  she  was  not  more  averse  to 
admiration  than  a  young  girl.  She  was  a  woman  of 
fine  presence,  and  her  face  bespoke  many  good  quali- 
ties. She  looked  almost  as  young  as  her  daughter, 
but  Annabel's  features  had  little  of  her  mother's  ex- 
pression. They  might  have  been  taken  for  two 
sisters,  and  none  would  have  suspected  that  they  were 
mother  and  daughter. 

Mrs.  Edmonds  did  not  kiss  Mrs.  Almont.  She 
seemed  to  realize  at  a  glance  that  she  would  scarcely 
take  kindly  to  such  familiarity.  The  cats  were 
present  in  startling  array.  Tramp  had  the  post  of 
honor  on  Mrs.  Edmonds'  lap,  and  a  "  high  tea"  was 
ready.  Annabel  was  forcibly  reminded  of  what  had 
occurred  when  she  made  her  appearance  three  weeks 
ago.  All  of  her  hopes  and  fears  were  now  at  rest. 
Her  mother  had  come,  and  life  was  to  begin  in  real 
earnest. 

When  they  had  gone  upstairs,  Mrs.  Almont  spoke. 
"Annabel,  I  don't  dislike  the  people,  nor  this  house; 
and  their  having  been  so  kind  to  you  already  places 
us  under  a  deep  obligation  to  them.  There  are  many 
things  which  money  can  buy.     Kindness    is  one  of 


Stage-Struck.  1 2  5 

them;  but  you  seem  to  have  obtained  a  good  deal  of 
it  at  a  very  reasonable  cost.  The  concerts,  theatre, 
opera,  and  companionship  are  not  always  included  in 
bed  and  board  at  so  much  a  week,  even  in  a  London 
lodging-house.  You  have  been  very  fortunate;  but  I 
confess  that  I  do  not  like  the  cats.  They  remind  me 
of  the  old  poem,  *  We  are  Seven ' — a  poem,  by  the 
way,  which  I  never  could  learn  to  recite.  I  always 
broke  down  at  the  third  verse." 

"Dear  mamma,  you  will  get  used  to  them;  and 
Tramp  is  not  at  all  a  bad  animal." 

"  I  never  had  any  love  to  waste  either  on  dogs  or  cats." 

If  truth  must  be  told,  the  good  lady  had  little  love 
to  waste  on  mankind  or  womankind  in  general.  The 
limited  powers  of  affection  which  nature  had  bestowed 
upon  her  were  divided  in  very  unequal  parts  between 
herself  and  Annabel. 

In  a  few  short  moments  Annabel  had  given  details 
of  her  three  weeks  in  London;  in  fact,  of  her  life 
since  she  stepped  aboard  the  Arigona.  In  turn,  Mrs. 
Almont  had  lightened  her  home  budget  of  all  its 
weightiest  news. 

"  It  is  decided,  my  dear,  that  you  are  to  study  in 
London  until  the  end  of  the  season,  or,  any  way,  until 
the  latter  part  of  July.  Your  uncle  will  not  hear  of 
your  going  to  Italy  before  September,  at  least.  He 
wishes  you  to  work  with  Garcia,  and  we  will  see 
about  beginning  at  once." 

"  Oh,  mamma,  I  am  so  glad  !  I  have  taken  a  real 
fancy  to  London;  and  I  would  rather  study  with 
Garcia  than  with  any  other  teacher  in  the  world  ! 
How  I  love  Uncle  Jim  !" 


1 26  Stage-Struck, 

"So  you  have  been  to  the  Crystal  Palace,  have 
heard  Nilsson,  Patti,  Tamberlik,  and  I  do  not  know 
who  else  besides  ?  But  who — who  is  this  Brakenston? 
He  seems  to  color  all  your  conversation." 

"Brakenston!  Why,  he's  a  gentleman.  He  plays 
the  piano  divinely,  and  he  is  engaged,  we  think,  to 
Mrs  Edmonds'  daughter  Eulalie." 

"  Do  you  like  him  ?" 

"I?     Me?" 

"Yes,  you." 

"  I  don't  know.  I  have  not  even  thought  about 
him.  Y-y-yes,  rather.  I  don't  dislike  him  as  much 
as  I  expected  to."  Then  she  related  what  she  had 
heard  on  the  evening  of  her  arrival. 

"They  have  evidently  changed  their  minds  about 
him."     Mrs.  Almont  spoke  dryly. 

"  Yes." 

"And  this  Lord  Henry  Ascot  and  Uncle  Johnny  ?" 

"  I  like  them  both  very  much.  But  Ascot  isn't  a  bit 
like  a  lord — he  is  as  amiable  as  possible;  and  Uncle 
Johnny  is  a  great  writer.  They  have  only  been  here 
three  or  four  times." 

"Quite  enough,  I  should  say.  I  don't  like  your  be- 
coming intimate  with  every  one  whom  you  may 
meet.  Remember  that  you  are  a  student,  and  that 
life  with  you  will  be  no  bagatelle.  This  round  of 
amusement  may  do  for  a  little  while,  but  you  can  have 
little  to  do  with  society;  and,  above  all,  your  uncle 
warned  me  against  your  falling  in  love.'* 

"  Me  in  love  !  The  last  thing,  I  should  say,  which 
would  come  into  my  head." 

"  So  much  the  better.     Think  only  of — of  your  goal 


Stage-Struck,  127 

and  your  work.  Now  that  you  have  cut  yourself 
adrift  from  the  whole  world  for  the  sake  of  your  art, 
it  would  be  a  disgrace  to  fail.  It  must  be  all  in  all  to 
you — father,  mother,  brother,  lover,  and  friend.  Ah, 
my  dear,  what  we  call  Ambition  is  a  hard  task-master 
and  brooks  no  divided  homage." 

Wise  Mrs.  Almont  !  Wise  Uncle  Jim  !  Wise  Anna- 
bel !  Exacting  ambition  !  How  easy  to  dictate  to 
heart  or  head  ! 

Wolsey ''charged"  Cromwell,  but  after  the  cardi- 
nal's fall.  Eve  appreciated  her  Eden  only  when,  at 
the  archangel's  command,  she  had  to  leave  it;  and  to- 
day many  of  her  descendants  only  value  what  they 
have  lost  when  it  is  gone  from  them.  Mrs.  Almont 
warned  her  daughter  not  to  fall  in  love;  but  was  it 
not  too  late  ? 

Annabel  thought  of  her  dream.  Her  mother's 
questions  awakened  strange  feelings  in  her  bosom. 
Could  it  be  that  she  was  really  in  love  with  Brak  ? 
She  liked  him,  certainly.  It  was  not  strange.  She 
had  seen  him  day  after  day;  he  was  certainly  charm- 
ing, and  he  played —  She  drew  a  deep  breath.  Yes, 
that  was  it.  It  was  not  the  man,  but  the  music.  She 
was  in  love  with  the  music.  Dark  eyes,  wavy  hair,  a 
voice  of  such  fascination,  when  speaking,  that  she 
could  often  hear  it  ringing  in  her  ears;  a  mobile 
manner,  and  a  deference  that  indifference  sometimes 
implies.  These  masculine  assets  were  nothing  com- 
pared with  his  talent.  Nero  would  be  a  success  in 
London  drawing-rooms  to-day  if  he  appeared  with 
his  fiddle,  and  would  entirely  eclipse  the  good  Titus, 
who  could  only  make  men  happy.    This  was  the  expla- 


128  St  age-Struck. 

nation  of  her  feelings,  and  she  was  delighted  to  ac- 
count so  easily  for  them.  What  could  she  have  been 
thinking  of,  to  have  felt  alarm  even  for  a  second  ? 

She  kissed  her  mother  very  softly,  and  said,  "  Dar- 
ling, don't  be  afraid  ;  I  shall  never  fall  in  love.  I 
shall  not  disgrace  you,  nor  make  Uncle  Jim,  nor 
father,  nor  friends  lose  faith  in  me.  I  am  wedded  to 
my  art,  so  in  all  likelihood  I  shall  never  have  any 
flesh-and-blood  husband." 

"  Don't  say  that,  my  dear.  We  do  not  ask  or  ex- 
pect such  a  sacrifice.  Only  now  is  the  time  to  study  ; 
and  when  you  are  a  great  singer,  then  you  may  think 
of  men.  They  are  too  selfish,  my  love,  to  enter  into 
any  one's  life,  excepting  it  be  to  monopolize  it  for 
their  own  convenience  and  amusement.  Our  whole 
life  is  but  an  episode  in  theirs.  Had  you  been  brought 
up  like  girls  in  Europe,  in  a  convent  in  France  or 
Italy,  or  in  a  foreign  school,  you  would  do  like  them 
all.  Poor  things  !  When  they  are  let  loose,  they  fall 
in  love  with  the  first  man  they  see,  whether  it  be  the 
marquis  or  the  marquis's  valet,  and  look  upon  him  as 
a  deliverer  from  hated  bondage.  In  America,  boys 
and  girls  go  to  school  together  and  associate  to- 
gether. In  consequence  of  this  youthful  intimacy, 
one  sex  has  not  that  desire  to  adore  the  other.  You 
are  a  sensible  girl ;  and  had  you  not  been  just  what 
you  are,  I  never  would  have  permitted  your  coming 
to  Europe  alone." 

"  Just  what  I  am  ?    What  am  I,  mother  dear  ?" 

"A  cold-blooded  American,  I  hope." 

"Are  Americans  really  more  cold-blooded  than 
other  women  ?" 


Stage-Struck.  129 

"Yes.  But,  in  justice,  I  must  own  that  English 
girls  run  them  pretty  close." 

"  How  strangely  you  talk,  mamma  !" 

"Not  strangely,  but  knowingly.  Remember  that  I 
am  half  English  myself." 

"  And  I  am  a  sort  of  a  cross.  Were  I  a  horse,  they 
might  call  me  a  *  piebald.*" 

"  It's  almost  the  same  thing." 

"Dear  mamma,  how  you  do  go  on  to-day  !  What 
can  have  come  into  your  head  ?" 

"  Nothing  ;  only  I  hope  that  you  will  never  have 
cause  to  remember  your  uncle's  warning.  Love  is 
the  least  polite  of  all  contagions.  You  can't  even  be 
brought  down  with  typhus  without  some  sort  of  pre- 
monition ;  but  love-fever  makes  a  clean  sweep  of  it, 
before  there  are  any  outward  symptoms.  Promise 
me  one  thing,  dear :  that  you  will  confide  in  your 
mother,  if  you  ever  catch  it.     Will  you  promise  ?" 

Annabel  gave  the  required  promise  without  hesita- 
tion. At  the  same  time  she  congratulated  herself 
that  her  diagnosis  of  what  she  felt  for  Brakenston 
had  been  so  completely  satisfactory. 

"I  promise,  mamma,"  she  replied  gayly.  "But  let 
us  hope  for  the  quart  d'heure  de  grace  j  then  I  shall  be 
forewarned.  I  shall  have  the  fever  lightly,  and — and 
I  will  drink  saffron-tea,  just  as  I  did  when  I  was  a 
little  girl  and  had  the  measles.  The  tea  was  to  bring 
out  the  rash." 

"  Yes,  dear ;  keep  the  rash  on  the  surface.  It  is 
dangerous  only  when  it  strikes  in.  But  it  is  time  to 
change  the  subject.  What  did  you  think  of  Jame- 
son?" 


130  Stage-Struck. 

Oh,  the  captain  !  He  is  a  type.  I  knew  him  at 
once,  when  he  came  aboard  at  Liverpool.  He  was 
fall  of  business  ;  treated  me  as  though  we  were  at 
least  foster-brother  and  sister ;  had  a  discussion  with 
a  Mexican  who  crossed  with  us,  and  whom  he  rated 
soundly  for  doing  nothing.  *Man  alive,'  said  he,  'for 
Heaven's  sake,  do  something  !  Look  at  me  !  I'm  a 
self-made  man,  and — and  I  believe  in  my  Maker.' " 

"Just  like  one  of  his  speeches.  He  is  the  most  ex- 
traordinary man,  but  really  good-hearted,  and  very 
kind  to  Americans." 

They  were  interrupted  by  a  tap  on  the  door ;  then 
a  little  head  showed  itself  peering  through  the  slight 
opening. 

"May  I  come  in  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear,  seeing  that  you  are  in  already."  Anna- 
bel kissed  the  child  as  she  spoke.  Annie  was  one  of 
her  prime  favorites. 

"We  are  going  to  have  supper" — she  spoke  shyly  to 
Mrs.  Almont — "and  such  a  grand  supper,  too.  Will 
you  come?" 

"  With  pleasure.     I  am  so  hungry." 

"  Mother  likes  you  ;  and  Lallie  wonders  if  your 
hair  is  false." 

The  child  peered  well  into  Mrs.  Almont's  face  as 
she  spoke.     The  lady  laughed  pleasantly. 

"Show  it  to  her,  mamma  ;  do." 

Annabel  spoke  eagerly.  This  beautiful  hair  was 
one  of  her  mother's  weaknesses.  She  never  lost  an 
opportunity  to  let  her  friends  see  it.  She  turned  with 
a  half-negative  gesture,  but  she  commenced,  never- 
theless, to  undo  it.     She  pulled  out  an  amber  comb, 


Stage-Struck.  1 31 

and  the  mass  rolled  down  to  her  feet — rolled,  nay, 
rather  floated  around  her,  like  a  golden  cloud  lined 
with  light. 

Annie  cried  aloud  with  astonishment.  "Why,  it's 
three  times  as  long  as  Lallie's  !  What  will  she  do  ? 
I  love  Lallie" — she  said  this  anxiously — "and  I  only 
wish  that  she  had  it.  -Brak  said  that  he  loved  her 
hair,  and  I  know  he  would  love  her  twice  as  much  if 
it  were  twice  as  long." 

Mrs.  Almont  looked  somewhat  surprised.  "You 
must  not  talk  that  way,  dear.  No  doubt,  Mr.  Brak- 
enston  would  not  have  your  sister's  hair  changed  for 
the  world.  He  likes  it  because  it  belongs  to  her  and 
is  a  part  of  herself." 

"I  do  not  understand,"  she  rejoined  timidly; 

Mrs.  Almont  patted  her  head  affectionately.  "You 
do  not  understand  ?  No,  I  suppose  not ;  but  you 
will  one  of  these  days,  and  you  will  realize  that, 
when  one  loves,  one  loves  everything  which  belongs 
to  the  adored  object,  whether  it  be  handsome  or 
homely." 

"Yes.  But  Lallie's  hair  isn't  homely;  it's  only 
shorter  than  yours,  not  quite  so  thick,  and  of  a  differ- 
ent color." 

"  Shall  we  go  to  supper  ? 

"Yes.  I  am  very  hungry;  I  am  always  hungry. 
Mother  says  it's  because  I  am  growing.  My  sisters 
have  weak  chests;  she  hopes  mine  is  strong" — tap- 
ping it  sturdily. 

"I  should  hope  so;  but  at  your  age  you  must  not 
think  of  such  a  thing." 

Mrs.  Almont  was  amazed  to  listen  to  a  child  of  her 


132  Stage-Struck. 

years  speak  so  indifferently  of  such  a  terrible  weak- 
ness.    Annie  interrupted  her  thoughts. 

"  The  one  who  dies  first,  the  others  have  her  money. 
I  heard  the  lawyer  talking  about  it.  I  don't  want  to 
die.  I  would  give  them  all  of  mine,  so  that  I  might 
live  for  ever.  Oh,  oh!" — jumping  down  the  last  two 
steps — "here's  Tramp;  he  is  come  to  meet  me.  Do 
you  love  dogs?  Every  one  loves  Tramp;  and  mother 
won't  eat  without  he  is  in  her  lap.  You  must  love 
him,  or  I  shall  be  unhappy." 

Mrs.  Almont  was  about  to  reply,  when  Tramp  set- 
tled the  question.  He  sprang  at  her,  put  one  paw 
through  a  frill  of  old  Valenciennes,  licked  her  face, 
and  would  have  continued  his  playful  tricks  had  she 
not  demurred. 

"I  do  not  love  dogs."  She  spoke  and  turned  to 
Tramp  decidedly.  "  I  promise,  however,  to  tolerate 
you,  provided  that  you  never  come  at  me  again  in  this 
fashion." 

Tramp  wagged  his  tail;  he  had  evidently  under- 
stood. But  alas  for  canine  promises!  He  was  only 
tolerated  for  one  little  half-hour. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  Mr.  Garcia  ?" 

"  Yes,  'um.  Walk  in  to  the  right.  He  is  just  alone 
this  minut*." 

A  clean^  bright-looking  maid  was  speaking  and 
standing  in  the  door  of  a  house  in  Bentinck  Street. 
Annabel  had  received  Signor  Garcia's  letter  making 
an  appointment,  and  she  was  here  with  her  mother  to 
keep  it. 

They  turned  to  a  door  opening  to  the  left,  and  saw 
a  man  standing  beside  an  open  grand  piano.  After  a 
few  words  of  introduction,  they  entered  into  business 
at  once. 

While  he  was  arranging  details,  Annabel  looked  at 
the  famous  teacher.  So  this  was  Manuel  Garcia,  the 
brother  of  Malibran  and  Pauline  Viardot,  the  teacher 
of  the  great  Jenny  Lind,  and  the  famous  inventor  of 
the  laryngoscope. 

The  signor  was  of  medium  height,  but  had  an  air  of 
being  much  shorter.  His  face  was  a  long  oval.  He 
wore  a  slight  gray-black  mustache,  which  scarcely 
concealed  a  very  earnest  but  mobile  mouth.  His 
dark  eyes,  once  evidently  piercing,  were  now  dimmed 
with  the  mist  of  age  stealing  over  and  veiling  their 
sombre  depths.  In  spite  of  their  faded  color,  they 
blazed  with  almost  unnatural  brightness,  every  now 
and  then  glancing  upwards  with  an  expression  which 


1 34  Stage-Struck. 

betrayed  the  true  Spaniard.  His  forehead  was  higli, 
narrow,  and  wrinkled.  His  complexion  was  a  clear 
olive,  and  his  cheeks  were  covered  with  a  network  of 
minute  lines.  His  hair,  of  unusual  fineness,  clung 
with  scant  ceremony  to  his  shapely  head.  Annabel 
knew  that  he  was  over  seventy,  although  it  was 
scarcely  credible,  he  seemed  so  much  younger.  His 
manner  was  simplicity  itself,  and  he  had  all  the 
vivacity  of  a  southern  nature.  He  was  very  spare,  his 
clothes  hung  loosely  about  him,  and  his  shoulders  had 
a  very  slight  stoop. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  talk  before  the  lesson  be- 
gan. Mutual  acquaintances  to  be  remembered  (the 
signor's  relations  were  world-wide),  the  different 
artists,  the  Americans,  their  voices,  and  the  necessary 
course  of  studies — all  these  things  were  exhaustively 
discussed  before  the  professor  seated  himself  at  the 
piano  to  hear  the  young  girl's  voice. 

She  commenced  singing  a  group  of  arpeggio  to 
show  its  compass.  She  sustained  some  tones  to  show 
her  power  of  lungs  and  way  of  taking  breath;  then 
she  ran  over  the  simple  scale. 

The  master  laughed  good-naturedly.  He  stopped 
her  after  the  fourth  note. 

"Let  me  hear  that  again,"  he  said.  "In  ascending 
the  scale,  always  accent  the  note  which  is  the  weakest 
and  which  is  the  likeliest  to  slip.  Sing  very  slowly, 
listen  to  yourself,  and  stop  when  you  produce  a  tone 
which  sounds  badly  to  yourself.  Never  persist  in  a 
thing  which  is  wrong.  If  even  the  second  note  is 
weak,  stop  at  the  second,  and  begin  again.  It  is  only 
in  lending  the  ear  to  each  sound  as  it  comes  out  that 


Stage-Struck.  135 

you  can  gain  an  idea  where  the  fault  lies.  Your 
scale  is  very  bad;  the  fourth  note  being  flat,  the  sixth 
sharp,  the  seventh  weak,  and  the  eighth  or  first  alto- 
gether uncertain.  The  intervals'are  not  properly  de- 
fined." 

Annabel  recommenced,  but  with  little  better  suc- 
cess. He  stopped  her  once  more,  this  time  at  the 
sixth  note.  She  had  remembered  only  the  first  part 
of  what  he  had  said. 

She  began  again  and  again.  With  a  gesture  he 
stopped  her,  as  she  was  passing  from  the  seventh  to 
the  last  note.     This  time  he  spoke. 

"When  I  tell  you  what  is  to  be  done,  be  sure  that 
you  understand  my  meaning  before  you  attempt  to 
do  it.  Think  well  over  what  I  say,  and  get  well  hold 
of  the  sense  of  my  words.  People  should  sing  with 
the  head  as  much  as  with  the  throat.  They  must  use 
their  brains  as  well  as  their  voices." 

Annabel  blushed.  No  wonder.  He  had  not  said 
that  she  was  a  fool,  but  he  had  made  her  feel  like  one. 

They  tried  a  few  more  different  exercises,  some  with 
the  shake,  and  scales  were  abandoned  for  that  day. 
After  twenty  minutes'  singing,  the  professor  stopped 
her. 

"Rest,"  he  said  briefly;  "then  we  will  recommence. 
No  voice  can  or  should  stand  more  than  twenty  min- 
utes' consecutive  exercises.  If  you  will  permit  me,  I 
will  answer  some  notes  while  you  repose." 

He  went  to  a  long  high  desk  or  table,  and,  seating 
himself,  wrote  three  or  four  letters.  Having  sealed 
and  addressed  them  one  after  the  other,  he  rang  the 
bell,  and  they  were  sent  away  at  once.     He  had  con- 


1 36  Stage-Struck. 

eluded  all  with  more  despatch  than  the  secretary  of  a 
prime  minister  could  have  done  in  twice  the  time. 
He  was  one  of  those  sort  of  men  with  whom  to  think 
was  to  act. 

"Now,  my  child,  have  you  brought  any  song  with 
you  to  sing?" 

Annabel  handed  him  the  grand  air  from  "  Beatrice 
de  Tenda,"  for  soprano — ^^ Ma  la  sola  oimi son  to.** 

The  master  started.  He  was  struck  with  the  coin- 
cidence, and  murmured,  "The  first  time  Jenny  Lind 
came  to  sing  to  me,  she  brought  this  same  air;  and 
at  the  first  lesson  she  ever  had,  this  was  the  study." 

Annabel  was  radiant. 

"  Oh,  dear  master,  how  glad  I  am  that  my  first  les- 
son recalls  hers !  I  remember  that  she  was  your 
pupil.     Do  tell  me  of  her." 

"Yes,  yes,  with  pleasure;  all  in  good  time.  Now 
for  the  aria."  He  seated  himself,  and  they  com- 
menced the  first  recitative. 

*^  O  mio  fedeley"  vfOiS  got  through  with  much  timid- 
ity. Annabel  went  on  to  the  andante,  was  stopped 
occasionally,  and  then  they  came  to  the  allegro,  which 
the  master  played  with  great  spirit.  She  sang  it 
through  without  interruption,  which  surprised  her. 

"I  did  not  stop  you,"  said  the  master,  "until  I  had 
heard  how  you  had  been  taught.  You  sing  neither 
well  nor  badly,  but  your  style  is  what  we  call  in  sing- 
ing ^ robe  de  chambre*  It  will  never  do  for  a  profes- 
sional." 

He  then  recommenced  the  andante,  and  gave  her 
a  change  the  second  time  of  singing  the  same  phrase 
which  had  been  sung  and  was  composed  by  him  for 


Stage-Struck,  137 

Jenny  Lind.  He  explained  the  passage,  played  the 
notes  over,  and  Annabel,  who  fancied  that  she  under- 
stood him,  immediately  attempted  it.  She  failed; 
she  tried  again,  and  failed  a  second  time. 

**  Listen,"  he  said.  "  If  we  study  together,  we  must 
begin  by  understanding  each  other.  You  asked  me 
about  Jenny  Lind.  I  will  tell  you  in  what  she  was 
greater  than  any  pupil  I  have  ever  had.  I  would  play 
over  a  cadenza  or  a  phrase,  saying,  *  Do  it  so.'  She 
always  listened  very  attentively,  never  interrupted; 
then,  when  I  had  finished,  she  said,  *I  have  thought  it 
over,  and  do  not  quite  understand.  Would  you  tell  me 
again  ? '  I  would  tell  her  a  second  time.  She  studied 
it  slowly,  minutely,  and  then  had  the  courage  to  say, 
*  I  think  I  have  some  comprehension  of  your  meaning, 
but  it  is  not  yet  clear.'  I  have  any  amount  of  pa- 
tience, and  I  told  her  a  third  time.  She  at  last  seized 
upon  the  true  meaning,  and,  although  slow  in  learn- 
ing, she  never  forgot.  The  reason  of  Jenny  Lind's 
enormous  progress  in  so  short  a  time  was  this:  that, 
after  a  first  and  thorough  explanation,  she  knew  how 
to  apply  herself  in  the  right  way  to  study.  I  do  not 
remember  to  have  repeated  the  same  thing  a  second 
time  to  her  after  the  one  lesson.  In  consequence,  she 
learned  more  in  one  year  than  other  pupils  will  in  ten 
years  or  in  a  lifetime.  Ask  me  any  and  everything, 
but  be  sure  that  you  have  mastered  the  meaning  of 
any  musical  phrase  or  cadence  before  you  attempt  to 
sing  it.  Notes" — pointing  to  the  aria — "  are  black  or 
white,  but  should  not  be  otherwise  colorless.  What 
are  you  singing  about  ?" 

"  About  ?    Why  about  *  Beatrice  de  Tenda.' " 


138  Stage-Struck. 

"  Very  good.  Now,  this  succession  of  small  notes 
are  made  to  represent  some  particular  sentiment. 
Recitative  is  vocal  speaking;  but  when  you  sing  a 
melody  or  a  cadenza,  it  becomes  more  difficult  to  give 
expression  to  the  sentiment  contained  in  the  words, 
and  at  the  same  time  to  that  in  the  notes.  I  want  to 
hear  no  ah — ah — ah-ing.  Sing  the  words,  but  first  of 
all  know  what  they  mean,  and  try  to  express  that 
meaning  when  you  are  singing.  Do  you  speak 
Italian?     Of  course  not;  I  should  not  have  asked." 

This  rather  hurt  her  feelings,  as  she  had  been  told 
by  many  Americans  that  her  accent  was  pure  Tuscan. 

The  master  began  an  explanation  of  the  opera,  and 
the  scene  of  this  particular  song  where  Beatrice  cries 
out  to  her  people  and  bewails  her  shame  and  unhap- 
piness  at  having  given  up  her  country  as  a  prey  to  the 
tyranny  of  such  a  man  as  Filippo,  whom  she  had 
raised  to  so  great  an  estate,  and  whom  she  had  hon- 
ored with  such  affection. 

"  This  is  the  end  of  all  her  hopes,"  he  explained. 
"  This  long  succession  of  sobbing  notes  is  meant  to 
express  her  utter  despair;  and  the  last  words,  ^O  mio 
rossore^  convey,  as  only  Bellini  could  express,  the 
sentiment  of  shame  and  horror  which  filled  her  soul." 

Annabel  was  touched.  The  master  spoke  with  such 
feeling,  and  described  the  scene  so  graphically,  that  it 
seemed  as  if  they  could  see  Beatrice  before  her  sub- 
jects, and  hear  the  cries  of  ^^  Misera  !  Mtsera!"  She, 
without  understanding  anything  of  this,  had  dashed 
into  andante  as  if  it  had  been  an  Arditi  waltz.  It  was 
sacrilegious  !  She  had  only  thought  of  time  and  tune, 
without  exactitude  in  either,  and  she  had  totally  ig- 


Stage-Struck.         •  139 

nored  every  other  fact  but  that  she  was  Annabel  Al- 
mont  come  to  Europe  to  be  a  great  singer  ;  that  she 
was  studying  with  Garcia,  and  singing  Jenny  Lind's 
first  song  not  at  all  badly.  How  little  had  she  realized 
what  she  had  been  doing  ! 

She  colored  with  shame,  for  the  master  had  evi- 
dently understood  all  that  had  been  passing  through 
her  mind. 

He  motioned  to  her  that  the  lesson  was  finished. 

"Go,  my  child,  and  come  the  day  after  to-morrow," 
said  he.  "You  must  not  mind  my  scolding.  The 
next  time  forget  that  you  are  pretty,  and,  while  we 
are  studying  this  same  song,  remember  that  you 
should  be  only  unhappy  Beatrice." 

This  lesson  was  simply  one  of  many.  The  days  flew 
by,  and  three  times  a  week  Annabel  went  to  study 
with  the  great  teacher. 

She  tried  to  remember  his  advice  about  how  to 
study.  It  was,  however,  not  quite  so  easy  as  she  had 
at  first  imagined.  She  sang  her  exercises  with  great 
care,  and  was  obliged  to  write  them  out  from  memory, 
and  then  at  each  lesson  she  brought  her  manuscript 
to  the  master  to  be  corrected.  He  was  very  good- 
natured,  and  applauded  her  efforts,  although  no  one 
realized  better  than  she  how  little  worthy  of  praise 
they  really  were. 

One  day  her  sheet  was  particularly  unintelligible. 
He  questioned  her. 

"Do  you  hear  the  sounds  in  your  head  as  you  write 
them  down  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  and  no." 

"I  thought  so.     This  drawing  or  group  of  eight 


140  Stage-Struck, 

notes  looks  like  the  antics  of  a  drunken  spider.  Poor 
thing  !  he  must  have  become  entangled  in  his  own 
web." 

Then  they  would  all  laugh  at  his  quaint  conceit, 
Garcia  would  again  correct,  and  the  lesson  would 
continue. 

The  air  from  Beatrice  was  finally  pronounced  pass- 
able, and  Annabel  commenced  to  study  Rossini.  She 
had  heard  Nilsson  sing  Desdemona  with  Tamberlik, 
and  longed  to  attempt  the  great  scene  in  which  the 
Swedish  songstress  was  pre-eminent.  The  master 
questioned  her  closely  as  to  Nilsson,  and  then  decided 
that  he  must  go  himself  to  hear  her  in  this  part. 
Slipping  to  his  bookcase,  he  drew  out  a  huge  volume, 
old,  yellow,  and  bethumbed.  It  was  an. Italian  copy 
of  "  Othello"  which  had  belonged  to  Malibran. 

"  Here  ;  you  shall  study  from  my  sister's  book.  Le4; 
us  hope  that,  like  her,  you  will  also  find  inspiration." 

Annabel  was  deeply  touched  by  the  master's  deli- 
cacy and  kindness.  How  could  she  do  otherwise  than 
profit  by  so  much  attention?  The  lesson  began  in  the 
usual  way.  This  time  she  was  more  in  sympathy  with 
her  work.  Did  she  not  know  "  Othello"  by  heart  ? 
Had  she  not,  time  and  again,  sighed  over  the  lot  of 
the  Moor's  ill-fated  wife  ? 

She  began  to  sing.  The  recitative  of  this  scene  is 
elaborate  and  lengthy.  Desdemona  sighs,  Emilia  re- 
sponds, the  gondolier  sings,  and  Desdemona  breaks  in 
with  the  words,  "(9  tu  del  vtio  dolore"  which  intro- 
duces the  minor  melody,  *^  assis*  al pie  d'un  salke** 

Annabel  dashed  into  it. 

Garcia  had  been  very  patient  during  the  usual  pre- 


Stage-Struck.  141 

liminary  exercises,  and  with  the  recitative.  He  al- 
lowed her  to  sing  this  scene  almost  through,  and  then 
stopped  her  abruptly. 

"  Listen  to  me.  You  said  that  you  knew  this.  You 
are  mistaken  ;  you  have  no  conception  of  what  you 
are  doing.  You  exercise  only  your  will  and  not  your 
brains.  I  do  not  expect  you  to  be  Nilsson  or  Malibran. 
If  you  were,  you  would  not  come  to  me  to  teach  you 
to  sing.  You  think  perhaps,  with  all  the  world,  that 
Malibran  moved  people  by  the  beauty  of  her  voice. 
Nothing  of  the  sort.  My  sister  had  as  vile  a  voice  as 
ever  a  woman  was  cursed  with  ;  but  whatever  she  did 
was  done  in  earnest.  Any  one  could  perceive  at  once 
that  she  knew  exactly  what  she  was  singing  about.  It 
was  not  alone  a  question  of  throat.  I  have  seen  audi- 
ences uncontrollable  until  she  came  upon  the  scene  ; 
then,  after  hearing  one  phrase  from  her  lips,  they  be- 
came spell-bound.  She  was  not  alone  a  singer,  but  she 
was  a  great  actress,  and,  above  all,  a  great  musician. 
A  cadenza  which  she  wrote  for  Desdemona  was  heard 
by  Rossini.  He  listened,  and  struck  his  head  with 
his  hand,  exclaiming,  *To  think  that  I  was  so  stupid 
as  not  to  have  written  that  myself ! '  But  it  is  not 
enough  to  write  a  cadenza  or  change  an  air.  This 
change  must  be  made  in  accordance  with  the  charac- 
ter of  the  music.  Besides  her  '  virtuosity,'  she  was 
always  the  character  she  represented.  So  you  see, 
then,  that  her  voice  had  little  to  do  with  her  success. 
She  sang  and  she  acted,  but  all  the  tiitie  her  audience 
felt  she  was  Desdemona. 

"  Once  in  Paris — I  shall  never  forget  it  (I  must  speak 
of  her  talent,  although  she  was  my  sister) — she  sang 


142  St  age-Struck. 

the  andante,  and  had  worked  the  audience  already  up 
to  a  pitch  of  extraordinary  enthusiasm  and  emotion. 
It  was  too  real.  She  commenced  the  recitative,  *  O 
cielo  che  mai  strepito  e  questo,"  then  she  stopped. 
Covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  she  finished  the 
phrase,  ^  quale presagio  funesto,'  with  so  terrible  an  ac- 
cent of  alarm  and  horror  that  every  one  felt  on  the 
eve  of  some  frightful  calamity. 

"  Emilia  calms  her  fears  when  again  she  sings. 
This  time,  before  taking  her  note  from  the  orchestra, 
she  got  up  stealthily,  nervously,  and  then  began  search- 
ing about  the  chamber.  She  did  this  as  a  woman  half 
dead  with  fright  would  if  she  imagined  that  some  evil 
thing  was  lurking  in  her  apartment.  She  tore  at  the 
curtains  of  bed  and  window  ;  she  rushed  to  the/^r- 
ti^res,  examined  everything,  and  then  crawled  back  to 
her  chair.  She  fell  fainting  into  it,  her  head  drooping 
in  utter  exhaustion  against  the  back.  Her  hands 
twitched  nervously,  and  she  muttered,  breathed  rather 
than  sung,  in  a  voice  broken  at  every  syllable,  ^  lo 
cre-do-vo-che  al  cu7to.  O !  come  il  cielo  s'  unisci  a  met 
lamenti*  Then  there  was  a  dead  silence,  and  she  lay 
back  in  her  chair  apparently  lifeless.  Every  one  felt 
cold  with  horror." 

The  master  acted  out  and  sang  all  of  this  scene. 
Although  he  had  not  much  voice,  and  that  little  was 
cracked  and  trembling,  he  imitated  his  sister  so  closely 
that  it  was  almost  painful  to  witness.  He  stopped, 
half  exhausted,*but  continued  his  recital  of  how  she 
had  finished  the  great  scene. 

"  The  applause  went  on,"  he  continued,  "  even  after 
the  commencement  of  the  prayer,  and  drowned  both 


Stage-Struck.  143 

voices  and  orchestra;  and  yet  she  produced  this  won- 
derful effect  with  a  bad  voice.  When  she  had  finished, 
there  was  not  a  dry  eye.  I  cried,  as  I  always  shall 
when  I  think  of  it.  Ah,  my  dear,  she  worked  like  a 
slave.  She  was  intelligent,  she  had  even  genius;  but 
she  depended  on  neither.  She  never  sang  the  simplest 
ballad  without  first  mastering  its  sense  beforehand. 
She  knew  exactly  what  every  word  meant,  and  before 
she  gave  it  sound  her  heart  had  uttered  it. 

"  Now,  Jenny  Lind  was  not  much  of  an  actress,  and 
her  only  genius  was  in  the  power  of  continuous  ap- 
plication. She  had,  too,  a  veiled  voice,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  one  octave  from  G  to  C  in  alt,  which  was 
as  clear  as  a  flute,  and  of  a  beautiful  quality;  but  she 
was  so  clever  and  tricky  that  she  deceived  even  my 
father.  Her  medium  notes  were  very  bad,  but  she 
used  them  so  skilfully  that  I  have  often  been  amazed, 
and  many  times  I  have  heard  great  critics  speak  of 
the  equality  and  beauty  of  every  register  of  her  voice. 
That  is  to  be  what  may  truly  be  called  an  artist." 

"Dear  maestro,  what  a  lesson  I  have  had  to-day! 
How  can  I  thank  you  enough  ?" 

"■  By  trying  to  profit  by  what  I  have  told  you.  You 
often  sing  a  thing  well  the  second  or  third  time. 
Remember  that  the  public  cannot  wait  for  you  to 
correct  yourself;  you  must  do  it  right  the  first  time, 
then  you  will  be  asked  to  give  them  a  second  or  third 
repetition.  Never  sing  carelessly;  so  long  as  you  do 
so,  you  will  never  be  a  singer.  You  must  not  fancy 
that  you  are  making  real  progress  until  it  never  oc- 
curs to  you  to  hum  out  aloud  about  your  house. 
Always  suppose,  at  every  one  of  your  lessons,  that  a 


144  St  age-Struck. 

thousand  persons  are  about  to  pass  judgment  upon 
you,  and  that  you  are  being  tried  for  your  life." 

The  maid  brought  Garcia  in  a  bowl  of  milk,  which 
he  drank  eagerly;  and  when  the  lesson  was  finished, 
he  accompanied  them  into  the  street.  As  they  passed 
along,  he  took  ^  little  French  roll  from  his  pocket 
and  ate  it  hungrily. 

*'  I  have  been  so  busy  all  day,"  he  explained,  "  I 
could  not  breakfast,  and  had  forgotten  to  lunch. 
Now  I  am  going  to  the  country  to  teach  a  pupil  who 
is  too  ill  to  come  to  me.  I  must  hurry  to  catch  my 
train.  Adieu;  au  revoir  until  the  day  after  to-morrow. 
Study,  be  patient,  and  remember  that  the  world  was 
not  made  in  a  day." 

Annabel  watched  the  old  maestro  until  he  was  out 
of  sight.  She  admired  his  conscientiousness  and  his 
utter  lack  of  egotism.  Most  men  at  his  age,  tired  out 
with  a  long  day's  work,  would  at  least  have  sighed  for 
rest;  but  he  seemed  as  devoted  to  his  art  and  as  en- 
thusiastic for  it  as  if  his  reputation  were  still  to  be 
made.  Manuel  Garcia  was  indeed  one  of  the  greatest 
men  of  his  day. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

As  soon  as  they  reached  home,  Mrs.  Almont  retired 
to  her  room.  Annabel  went  into  the  little  drawing- 
room,  to  try  over  her  last  lesson  whilst  it  was  yet 
fresh  in  her  mind.  She  had  been  seated  at  the  piano 
but  a  moment,  when  Brakenston  came  in.  She  did 
not  run  away,  as  she  would  have  done  a  month  since; 
they  were  so  used  to  seeing  the  young  man  that  no 
one  made  any  ceremony  with  him.  She  had  at  first 
felt  shy  in  his  presence  after  talking  with  her  mother- 
but  knowing  or  thinking  that  he  occupied  himself  but 
little  with  her,  she  soon  got  over  her  embarrassment; 
besides,  she  thought  that  he  was  engaged  to  Eulalie. 
He  came  forward  smiling,  and  held  out  his  hand.  She 
slightly  leaned  away  from  the  piano,  and  gave  hers 
with  the  words, 

"Excuse  my  left  hand;  I  am  too  lazy  to  be  polite." 

"  The  left,  you  know,"  he  answered  laughingly,  "  is 
nearest  the  heart."  Although  the  words  were  com- 
monplace, his  voice  strangely  stirred  her. 

"I  ought  to  leave  the  piano  now  that  you  have 
come.  Few  can  have  the  courage  to  play  before  you, 
or  even  attempt  to  fill  your  place." 

'*My  place!"  he  said  idly.  "That's  a  fact.  It  is  an 
important  one  in  art.  Once  my  friend  Monsieur 
Lionard  said,  *  Mon  cher,  you  are  the  best  fifth-class 


146  St  age-Struck. 

pianist  I  ever  heard.'  Lionard  was  Garcia's  cousin 
and  he  ought  to  know;  but  I  haven't  touched  the 
keys  for  days.  What  are  you  studying?"  He  looked 
at  the  opened  score.  "Ah!  Desdemona's  great  scene 
in  'Othello.'     What  a  curious  old  book!" 

She  explained  that  it  was  a  copy  of  Malibran's,  and 
how  Garcia  had  taught  her  from  it  that  day. 

''  What!  at  work  still  ?     Are  you  not  tired  ?" 

"  Tired  ?  Yes,  I  suppose  I  am;  but  I  like  to  fix  my 
lesson  on  my  mind  as  soon  as  I  get  home." 

"Do  I  interrupt?" 

"Oh  no,  indeed." 

"  No  ?     May  I  study,  too  ?" 

"You  study!  Rather  say,  May  I  sit  and  bore  my- 
self with  a  stupid  young  student  who  murders  Ros- 
sini ?  But  I  am  in  love  with  this  music.  Poor  Des- 
demona!  poor  Desdemona!" 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  about  her  being  *  poor '  Desde- 
mona." 

"  What!  smothered  by  a  brute  of  a  black  man!" 

He  laughed  lightly.  "  Your  remark  was  so  like  an 
American  girl.  But  let  us  talk  it  over.  You  must 
think  of  your  lesson,  you  know."  He  said  this 
apologetically. 

"  What  is  your  opinion  of  *  Othello  '  ?" 

"  That  it  is  about  the  best  of  Shakespeare's  works." 

"Yes;  but  I  never  could  comprehend  why  and  how 
Desdemona  came  to  love  him.  Perhaps  I  am  pre- 
judiced, but — he  was  black,  you  know." 

"  Come,  sit  in  this  arm-chair.  I  will  take  your  place 
and  play  you  something." 

The  change  was  effected. 


Stage-Struck.  147 

Brak  ran  his  fingers  over  the  keys  with  the  instinc- 
tive carelessness  of  a  man  who  is  their  master. 

"  Desdemona  is  always  supposed  to  be  a  weak  crea- 
ture," Annabel  continued,  with  hesitation. 

He  was  still  playing,  and  he  answered,  **  That  is 
the  great  mistake  made  by  many.  In  choosing 
Othello  for  a  husband,  Desdemona  showed  proof  of 
anything  but  weakness.  She  must  have  died  happy, 
knowing  whose  hand  killed  her." 

"  Explain  yourself." 

"Rather  hard  lines  on  her,  perhaps,"  he  continued, 
"but  it  was  a  proof  that  he  loved  her.  There  is  no 
crime  that  a  woman  will  not  forgive,  even  her  own 
murder,  if  it  is  the  result  of  love  for  her." 

"  There  was  more  jealousy  than  honest  love  in 
Othello's  crime;  but,  as  I  have  said,  what  I  cannot 
understand  is  how  Desdemona  came  first  to  care  for 
him.  You  know  he  says  that  she  loved  him  for  the 
dangers  through  which  he  had  passed." 

"Othello  says  so,  but  I  am  not  obliged  to  believe 
him.  I  suspect  that  it  was  love  at  first  sight;  at 
least,  if  not  love,  it  was  a  sneaking  regard  for  him.  I 
feel  sure  she  died  happy,  for  she  must  have  known 
that  the  Moor  cared  more  for  her  than  for  any  other 
woman.  You  know,  women  all  protest  that  they  can 
die  for  love." 

"Yes,  but  not  be  smothered  for  love.  I  should 
think  it  would  add  to  my  misery  to  be  killed  by  one 
who  loved  me.  Oh,  if  she  only  could  have  dreamt  of 
lago's  villainy!" 

"I  am  sure  we  ought  all  to  be  thankful  that  she 
didn't.    Had  she  suspected  anything,  we  should  never 


148  Stage-Struck. 

have  had  this  magnificent  tragedy.  She  would  have 
explained  her  conduct  satisfactorily:  women  always 
can.  lago  would  have  been  promoted  to  a  high  post 
in  the  diplomatic  service,  on  account  of  his  talents, 
and  would  thus  have  been  got  out  of  the  way.  You 
would  not  have  had  this  touching  scene  to  sing,  and  I 
should  not  have  had  the  pleasure  of  sitting  here  with 
you  and  discussing  the  unhappy  Desdemona.  Had 
the  handkerchief  been  restored,  had  things  gone 
right,  had  the  play  ended  with  a  dance,  you  would 
have  been  less  impressed,  and  would  have  gone  to 
your  room  without  a  thought  of  fixing  your  lesson  in 
your  mind." 

"  Do  you  not  think  that  Othello's  great  speech  begin- 
ning, *  It  is  the  cause,  my  soul;  it  is  the  cause,'  repays 
us  for  the  shock  of  knowing  that  his  words  doom 
Desdemona  ?" 

Brakenston  softly  murmured,  "This  sorrow's  hea- 
venly." His  hands  kept  up  a  running  accompaniment 
to  the  words,  "It  strikes  where  it  doth  love."  "She 
wakes."  "  One  woman  was  sacrificed  to  give  a  last- 
ing lesson  of  the  force  and  passion  of  man's  love.  All 
other  women  should  rejoice." 

"Happily,  there  was  but  one  Othello." 
"One  was  enough;  yet  there  are  many,  only  they 
are  not  likely  to  have  their  lives  written  by  a  Shake- 
speare.    Tant  pis'* 

"  So  you  never  felt  sorry  for  Desdemona  ?" 

"No,  no;  I  cannot  say  that  her  loss  ever  troubled 

my  rest.     Think   of  Othello's  provocation,  the  chain 

of  circumstances,  the  handkerchief — how  everything 

compelled  him  in  honor  to  act  as  he  did.      But  per- 


Stage-Struck.  149 

haps,  as  you  are  an  American,  you  think  that  he 
might  have  got  a  divorce.  Isn't  there  some  place  in 
a  Western  State  where  the  train  stops  and  the  porter 
shrieks,  'Fifteen  minutes  for  a  divorce  *  ?" 

Annabel  flushed.     "  You  are  well  informed." 

"Thanks.  Is  it  Indiana  or  Illinois?  I  forget.  It 
is  so  hard  in  London  to  keep  the  run  of  those  Ameri- 
can show-towns.     What!  are  you  angry  ?" 

"I?  No;  only  you  ought  to  be  more  serious. 
Fancy  Othello  getting  a  divorce  in  Indiana!  Why, 
even  lago  would  have  cut  his  acquaintance.  It's — 
it's—" 

"  How  unreasonable  you  are!  You  don't  want 
Desdemona  to  be  killed;  yet  you  want  to  sing  a  scene 
which  never  would  have  existed  had  she  not  been."^ 

**  I  never  could  have  loved  Othello." 

"  Perhaps  Romeo  would  have  been  more  to  your 
taste." 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  said,  "  Have 
— have  you  seen  Lallie  lately  ?" 

He  looked  up  with  a  laugh.  "  Lallie!  Is  she  not 
gone  to  the  country  for  two  days  ?" 

"  Ah!  Surely  ;  yes.  I  had  forgotten.  Will  you 
have  tea  ?  I  can't  think  why  they  don't  bring  it;  it 
is  past  five." 

A  maid  answered  the  bell.  **  Please,  mum,  they're 
hall  out.  Mrs.  Halmont  takes  tea  in  'er  room;  and 
you  are  to  have  yours  'ere,  if  you  like.  And  Mrs, 
Redmonds  ordered  dinner  for  height  o'clock;  and 
if  none  of  'em  comes  in,  you  are  to  dine  without 
'em." 

"Thanks." 


1 50  Stage-Struck. 

The  woman  disappeared,  but  returned  directly  with 
tea. 

Brak  began  to  play  softly,  softly.  Unconsciously, 
Annabel  drew  near  his  chair.  She  was  like  a  poor 
moth  wlio  had  only  to  see  the  light  to  flutter  into  it. 
He  sang  a  tender  Spanish  love-song;  then  began  the 
beautiful  introductory  from  Gounod's  "Romeo  et 
Juliette,"  where  Romeo  comes  first  to  stand  beneath 
his  love's  balcony.  He  played  with  a  weird  fascina- 
tion, going  rapidly  from  one  melody  to  another,  with- 
out permitting  Annabel  to  interrupt.  When  he  came 
to  the  marriage-scene,  he  commenced  to  repeat  the 
words,  still  accompanying  himself,  "Ah,  Juliet !  if  the 
measure  of  thy  joy." 

The  words  ''dear  encounter"  found  an  ominous 
echo  in  Annabel's  heart;  and  as  she  repeated  them  to 
herself,  she  raised  her  eyes  and  caught  Brakenston's 
gaze.  He  was  looking  at  her  as  he  had  looked  but 
once  before. 

She  rose  precipitately,  wishing  to  fly.  The  act  was 
a  confession.  She  had  too  little  knowledge  of  the 
world  to  know  that  it  was;  and  only  when  he  seized 
her  hand  did  she  realize  that  she  had  betrayed  her- 
self. 

"Stay,"  he  said  softly;  '"dear  encounter'  means 
you  and  me.  Why  do  you  run  away  ?  Do  you  know 
that — that  I  love  you  ?" 

What  had  she  done!  Another  woman's  promised 
husband  speaking  to  her  of  love  ! 

"  Listen.  Do  not  draw  away  your  hand.  I  came 
to-day  longing  to  see  you." 

He  looked  into  her  eyes  so  earnestly  that  she  was 


Stage-Struck,  151 

startled.  His  words  awakened  a  feeling  she  had 
never  before  known.  It  was  wrong,  all  wrong,  yet  he 
loved  her.  He  continued  speaking  in  a  tender  under- 
tone. Could  this  be  the  cool,  indifferent  Brakenston  ? 
Brak  !  and  telling  her  that  he  loved  her? 

He  kissed  her  hand.  He  was  no  longer  at  the 
piano,  but  was  close  to  her,  and  leaning  over  her 
chair.  His  warm  breath  fanned  her  cheek,  and  she 
felt  his  eyes,  which  glowed  with  passion  and  love 
burning  into  her  very  soul. 

"  Listen,"  he  whispered.  "  I  came  in  hopes  of  find- 
ing you  alone.  I  love  you  with  all  my  soul  and  heart. 
Give  up  the  idea  of  going  on  the  stage;  you  are  un- 
fitted for  it.     You  are  so  delicate,  so  innocent;  you — " 

"Hush!  hush! -how  can  you?"  and  she  tried  to 
withdraw  her  hand.  "  How  can  you  talk  so  to  me  ? 
You  are  Lallie's — " 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  he  interrupted  coldly.  "  I  had, 
and  always  shall  have,  a  warm  friendship  for  her. 
Now  it  can  never  be  anything  else." 

"You  say  now;  why  now?  Then,  you  once  did 
care  for  her,  and — and — " 

"Well,  perhaps  I  have  paid  her  some  attention;  but 
she  does  not  love  me,  and  I  never  can  care  for  any 
one  but  you." 

"This  is  sudden." 

"Not  so  sudden.  The  first  time  I  saw  you  I  felt 
something  which  I  cannot  describe.  Do  you  remem- 
ber the  night  at  the  opera  ?" 

"Yes,  yes."     She  spoke  hurriedly. 

"When  I  told  you  about  the  *  Dame  aux  Camelias,' 
I  really  fell  in  love  with  you.     Before  then,  I  never 


152  Stage-Struck. 

had  known  what  real,  true  love  was.  Dear  Annabel, 
do  you,  can  you,  care  for  me  ?" 

She  whispered  to  herself,  "Care  for  him!  care  for 
him!"  when  the  thought  that  he  loved  her  had  sent 
the  blood  coursing  wildly  through  her  veins.  She 
was  about  to  answer  him  "Yes,"  to  tell  him  how  dear 
he  was  to  her,  when  she  remembered  the  promise  to 
her  mother.     The  recollection  of  this  kept  her  silent. 

Brak  continued  to  murmur  words  of  love.  She 
heard  him  as  if  in  a  dream;  the  more  tenderly  he 
spoke,  the  deeper  was  the  pain  in  her  heart.  He  was 
so  sure  of  her  affection;  she  did  so  love  him,  and  now 
she  had  to  decide  upon  all  her  future  life.  She  was 
called  upon  to  choose  between  her  art  and  her  lover. 
Why  could  she  not  have  both  ?  But  her  word  had 
been  given  to  her  mother. 

She  snatched  her  hands  from  his  with  a  smile  upon 
her  features,  and  her  calm  accents  belied  her  heart, 
as  she  said,  "  You  ask  me  if  I  care  for  you.  I  am 
honest.  I  say  Yes;  but  I  cannot,  dare  not,  think  of — 
your  having  any  place  in  my  future  life.  I  shall  never 
marry." 

'You  are  mad;  or  is  it  that  you  are  only  trying 
me?"  He  laid  a  heavy  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  and 
looked  very  pale  as  he  spoke. 

She  never  stirred  as  she  answered,  "  I  am  not  doing 
this  to  try  you.  I  only  tell  the  truth.  It  costs  me, 
alas !  more  than  I  can  ever  say.  Do  not  press  me 
further;  take  the  only  answer  I  can  give  you,  and — " 

The  last  words  were  sobbed  rather  than  spoken. 
She  trembled  violently. 

"  My  own  love,  you  are  all  trembling.     You  do  love 


Stage-Struck.  1 53 

me.  Ah  !  I  felt  it;  I  knew  it.  Say  that  you  love  me; 
say  it  once,  only  once,"  he  pleaded.  "'I  have  so  often 
dreamt  of  this  moment ;  so  often,  sleeping  and  waking, 
longed  to  hear  your  voice.  Is  there  to  be  nothing 
more?    Say,  darling,  that  you  love  me." 

He  pressed  his  lips  to  hers.  His  voice  died  away 
into  a  faint  whisper.  There  was  a  magnetic  charm 
in  his  touch,  in  his  voice,  and  even  the  homely  room 
seemed  beautiful  by  his  presence. 

Had  he  spoken?  Was  she  dreaming?  Was  it, 
could  it  be,  true  ?  Yes,  too  real.  She  loved  and  was 
beloved.  The  world  for  her  could  hold  but  one,  and 
he  stood  beside  her;  nay,  was  at  her  feet,  as  he  im- 
plored her  to  say  the  one  word  which  to  him  was  all 
in  all.     For  one  moment  she  forgot  her  promise. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  murmured,  almost  inaudibly;  "yes, 
yes,  I  love  you;  I  do  love  you.     Can  you  doubt  it?" 

He  threw  himself  at  her  feet.  She  begged  him  to 
rise.  Her  heart  suddenly  died  within  her.  She  could 
not  leave  him  in  illusion:  yet  how  to  tell  him?  He 
pressed  her  in  his  arms.  She  gently  disengaged  her- 
self, murmuring, 

"  I  love  you  ;  but — " 

"  No  buts" — gaily.  "  I  will  not  listen.  I  shall  over- 
come all  your  objections  when  you  are  my  wife.  I 
shall  have  to  teach  you  not  to  be  obstinate.  You  love 
me;  that  is  enough  for  me  to  know  now." 

"  But—" 

"  I  will  not  listen.     I  shall  tell  Mrs.  Almont—" 

"What!  tell  my  mother!  Oh  no;  I  pray  you  do 
not!"  she  cried  aloud  with  fear. 

He  looked  amazed.    "  You  do  not  wish  me  to  speaK 


1 54  St  age-Struck, 

to  her?  Oh  !" — reflecting—**!  understand  ;  you  wish 
to  tell  her  yourself.     It  is  but  natural." 

"  Yes  ;  no.  I — I  must  think  it  over.  Do  not  ask 
my  reasons  ;  and  remember,  I  said  that  I  loved  you, 
but—" 

"Again  that 'but.'     I  will  not  have  you  repeat  it." 

*'Well,  I  mean,  let  things  remain  as  they  are  for 
the  present.  I  cannot  say  more.  Give  me  time  to 
think." 

"You  are  right,  perhaps.  I  have  taken  you  by 
surprise.  Will  you  consider,  and  tell  me  to-morrow 
whether  you  will  have  me  for  better  or  worse  ?" 

"  Yes,  to-morrow.     In  the  mean  time — " 

**  In  the  mean*  time  I  love  you,  you  love  me.  You 
have  said  it ;  at  least  you  cannot  unsay  these 
words  ?" 

"  No,"  she  repeated  gravely,  "  I  can  never  unsay 
them." 

"  And  you  never  will  ?"  He  looked  anxiously  at 
her. 

"  No,  I  never  will." 

"God  bless  you."  Then,  changing  his  tone,  "You 
know  that  you  are  making  a  bad  bargain.  I  am  ut- 
terly good  for  nothing,  and  almost  a  pauper,  too." 

She  blushed.  "  Do  not  speak  so  of  yourself.  I  love 
yoUy  not  what  you  may  possess  ;  but — " 

"I  will  not  hear  that  word  again.  Miss  Almont,  as 
you  have  given  me  your  heart,  pray  add  to  the  obliga- 
tion by  giving  me  some  tea." 

"  Tea  ?  Why,  I  had  quite  forgotten  it ;  and  now  it 
is  as  cold  as  a  stone." 

^*  Yes,  or — as  an  American." 


Stage-Struck.  155 

"  Do  not  slander  ;  it  is  unbecoming  a  man.  Besides, 
I  have  nothing  in  common  with  a  teapot." 

**  No.  You  have  been  at  me  with  your  *  buts  '  until 
I  have  half  a  mind  to  withdraw  my  proposal.  The 
future,  at  this  rate,  looks  anything  but  promising." 

How  joyful  he  was  !  She  sighed.  Well,  she  would 
be  joyful,  too.  It  was  only  for  this  once.  To-morrow 
she  would  tell  him  that  she  could  only  be  his  friend  ; 
but — ah  !  again  one  of  those  "buts." 

"  So  you  wish  already  to  withdraw  your  proposal  ?" 
she  said. 

"  It  might  be  wise.     Were  these  muffins  ever  hot  ?" 

"I  think  not." 

"Why  should  you  trouble  yourself  to  think  of  such 
a  thing?  Yes  or  No  will  do  for  an  answer  to  most 
questions,  especially  one  regarding  such  a  thing  as  a 
muff—" 

"That  is  what  I  thought." 

^^ Petite  mechante !  I  understand  you.  Thanks  for 
having  said  *Yes.*" 

"  I  have  not  yet  said  it." 

"Annabel — Miss  Almont,  do  not  contradict;  it  is 
unbecoming  a  woman.  I  hope  when  I  am  married 
that  I  shall  not  be  made  to  drink  cold  tea,  and — and 
— do  you  know  what  time  it  is?" 

"  I  fear  that  it  is  very  late." 

He  took  out  his  watch  with  provoking  calm. 

"  I  wish  to  state  that  it  is  nearly  seven  o'clock  ;  and 
this  is  the  first  time,  to  my  knowledge,  that  I  have 
ever  seen  the  lower  drawing-room  denuded  of  cats. 
You  charmed  them  away.  You  have  charmed  away 
the  hours.     You  would  charm  away  a  demon,  as  you 


1 56  Stage-Struck, 

did  from  me — the  demon  of  despair.  When  I  came  in 
here  to-day,  I  was  considering  two  questions." 

"Yes?" 

"One  whether  I  should  throw  myself  into  the 
Thames ;  the  other,  whether  I  should  propose  to 
you." 

"Thanks.     Between  two  evils,  choose  the — " 

"I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  I  have  chosen  the  lesser. 
I — "   A  violent  knocking  at  the  door  interrupted  him. 

"Come  in." 

**  Please,  mum,  no  one's  comin*  *ome  to  dinner, 
and  you  har  to  dine  alone.  Mrs.  Halmont  has  shut 
'erself  up  with  an  'eadache." 

"  Cheerful  company,"  said  Brak,  carelessly. 

"  With  an  'eadache,"  continued  the  maid.  "Hand 
I  told  Mrs.  Halmont  that  Mr.  Brakenston  was  'ere  ; 
and  she  said  she  would  leave  you  to  'is  care,  but  that 
you  must  not  disturb  'er,  has  she  is  tryin*  to  sleep." 

"  Poor  mamma !  she  suffers  from  terrible  head- 
aches." 

"Humph!" 

"What  can  you  mean  ?" 

"Have  you  never  suspected  that  attending  your 
singing-lessons  might  be  a  little  wearing  upon  a 
delicate  constitution?" 

"Nonsense  !"  she  said,  laughing.  "Barber,  how  do 
you  know  that  no  one  is  to  be  at  home  to  dinner?" 

"They  telegraphed,  mum,  from  the  Crystal  Palace, 
and  no  one  will  be  back  till  late.  Will  you  dine  soon, 
miss  ?" 

"  I  will  ring  when  I  am  ready." 

Barber  nodded  and  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

The  young  people  looked  at  each  other.  Braken- 
ston  drew  his  chair  close  to  the  girl,  expressing  his 
delight  that  they  were  still  to  be  left  alone. 

"  It  seems  a  Godsend — every  one  away.  I  never 
knew  such  a  coincidence.  How  shall  we  pass  our 
time  ?     I  know.     Have  you  ever  been  on  the  river  ?" 

"  Never.  But  it  does  not  seem  right,  my  being  alone 
with  you  the  whole  evening,  and  poor  mamma  ill.  I 
dare  not  disturb  her,  for  I  know  so  well  what  her 
headaches  are.  It  seems  strange,  does  it  not,  that 
every  one  should  be  away,  and  Annie,  too  ?  I  wonder 
where  she  is.     Stop;  I  must  ask  Barber  about  her." 

The  woman  appeared,  in  answer  to  a  second  ring. 

"  Please,  mum.  Miss  Hannie  'as  gone  to  play  at  a 
neighbor's  at  the  top  of  the  street,  and  will  be  'ome 
hearly.     She  bought  to  be  'ere  now." 

**  Indeed,  I  should  think  so." 

No  one  had  thought  of  the  child;  but,  as  if  to  verify 
the  old  adage  of  "  speaking  of  angels,"  at  that  moment 
she  came  in. 

Brak  let  a  naughty  word  escape  him.  He  did  not 
dislike  Annie,  but  at  that  time  she  was  not  precisely 
welcome.  She  ran  to  Annabel  as  usual  to  kiss  her, 
and  held  out  her  little  hand  to  Brak. 


158  Stage-Struck. 

She  explained  that  a  friend  had  come  to  take  the 
whole  family  to  the  Crystal  Palace.  Lallie  had  gone 
to  the  country  for  two  days. 

"  We  will  spend  the  evening  together,"  she  said 
simply  to  Annabel.  "I  love  you  so,  and  we  all  like 
Mr.  Brak  much  better  than  we  used  to." 

The  young  man  slightly  reddened.  He  turned  to 
Annabel,  saying  hurriedly,  "  Say  anything  to  her,  but 
come  on  the  river." 

Annie,  who  had  overheard  the  word  "  river,"  cried, 
"  Oh!  Mr.  Brak,  will  you  take  me  ?  You  always  said 
that  you  would  some  time." 

An  idea  struck  him.     He  spoke  again  to  Annabel. 

**  Will  you  come  if  she  is  with  us  ?" 

"  I — why,  yes.     I  might,  if  mamma — " 

"  Your  mamma  is  asleep.  Now,  Annie,  what  do  you 
say  to  a  row  on  the  Thames  ?  We  can  take  our  din- 
ner with  us  in  the  boat.     It  will  be  capital  fun." 

He  called  down  the  stairs,  "Barber,  Barber!  make 
us  up  a  basket  of  sandwiches,  or  anything,  and  some 
wine  or  beer;  we  are  going  out  for  the  evening." 

Annabel  tried  to  remonstrate.  She  wished  to  speak 
to  him  alone,  but  how  ? 

"Annie,  dear,"  she  said,  "  you  go  softly  to  mamma's 
door  and  see  if  she  is  asleep." 

Naturally  the  little  thing  ran  to  do  her  bidding,  and 
then,  finding  herself  alone  with  Brak,  she  spoke  very 
hastily. 

"  I  think  I  ought  not  to  go.  If  I  do,  promise  me 
that  you  will  not  say  one  word  of  love.  I  am  not 
bound  to  answer  yout  ill  to-morrow,  and  I  should 
die  if  that  child  were  to  suspect  anything.     Will  you 


Stage-Struck.  159 

be  careful  ?  Will  you  promise  ?  If  I  go,  you  will  not 
think  that  I  am  leading  you  on — '* 

**  Leading  me  on!  Well,  it  might  look  something 
like  it,"  he  added  laughingly. 

"Oh!  then  I  cannot  go." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Annabel  ?"  he  cried  sharply. 
"  You  are  trifling  with  me.     You  do  not  love  me." 

He  clasped  her  hand  and  gazed  passionately  into 
her  face.  Was  he  trying  to  read  her  answer  in  her 
flushed  cheek  and  drooping  eyelids  ? 

"  No,"  she  faltered,  "  it  is  not  that  I  do  not  love  you; 
but — let  things  remain  just  as  they  were." 

"  You  mean  that  we  go  upon  the  river  as  acqqaint- 
ances  ?  Miss  Almont,  will  you  do  me  the  distinguished 
pleasure  of  letting  me  have  the  charge  of  your  precious 
self  for  this  evening  ?  I  keep  a  small  boat  at  Kew,  and 
I  shall  have  the  honor  to  row  you  and  Miss  Annie  Ed- 
monds in  it,  if  you  can  trust  yourself  to  me." 

She  changed  color.  "  You  are  not  serious.  How 
can  you  joke  so  ?     I  will  not  come.     No." 

"  No  ?" — smiling.  "  No  ?" — coming  closer.  "  Yes, 
you  will  come" — kissing  her.  "  I  shall  not  bore  you 
with  protestations,  but  I  shall  look  them.  You  cannot 
care  for  me  if  you  refuse  me  so  slight  a  favor.  I 
promise  to  be  circumspection  itself,  and  to-morrow 
you  will  tell  me  that — that  I  may  hope  ?" 

"To-morrow — to-morrow  I  will  write  you.  Hush! 
she  is  coming.  Be  careful.  I  know  that  you  will  keep 
your  word." 

"  She  is  sound  asleep,"  said  Annie,  "  but  her  face  is 
very  white,  and  she  has  hugged  herself  up  tight  against 
the  pillow.     Are  we  going  ?" 


i6o  StagC'Struck, 

"Yes,  dear.  Do  get  ready."  Then  she  ran  to  her 
room  to  fetch  her  things.  Brak  gave  her  a  look  of  love 
and  sat  down  at  the  piano. 

He  played  one  of  Schumann's  melodies  very  softly. 
The  strain  reached  her  in  her  chamber.  How  divinely 
he  played,  and — how  she  loved  him!  She  scarcely 
dared  to  realize  all  that  had  happened;  and  now  they 
were  going  to  spend  the  evening — the  whole  evening 
— together!     Why  not  their  lives  together  ? 

What  if  she  were  to  say  Yes!  But  then,  what  would 
become  of  her  music,  her  singing,  her  ambition,  and 
her  career  ?  No;  it  could  not  be.  She  must  reflect; 
but  she  did  so  love  him!  She  would  pass  this  one 
evening  with  him,  and  then  perhaps  give  him  up.  She 
excused  her  weakness  by  a  thousand  little  artifices. 
She  must  see  more  of  him,  she  must  have  a  chance  to 
study  his  character;  above  all,  for  once  it  would  do 
no  harm.  She  would  go  and  enjoy  the  fleeting  pres- 
ent.    The  temptation  was  too  great. 

"This  is  a  lark!"  said  Brak,  ten  minutes  later;  "I 
with  this  basket,  and  you  two  girls  trotting  along  by 
my  side." 

Annabel  was  as  delighted  as  any  child. 

"Let  us  take  a  hansom;  we  shall  get  there  quicker 
than  going  by  train  from  Waterloo." 

"I  hope,"  said  Annie,  as  they  walked  along,  "that 
we  sha'n't  upset.  I  don't  want  to  have  a  collision,  or 
to  be  drowned  just  yet." 

The  word  collision  reminded  Annabel  of  the  terror 
of  all  ocean-travellers. 

"  Don't  speak  of  such  a  thing" — hastily.     "  Drown- 


St  age-Struck.  ,        l6i 

ing  is  said  to  be  an  agreeable  death;  but  I  am  not  at 
all  anxious  to  try  it." 

"It  may  be  agreeable,"  said  Brak,  "but  ah —  Here, 
cabby,  just  take  us  to  Kew;  and  look  alive,  as  we  want 
some  time  on  the  river  before  it  grows  dark."  They 
jumped  into  the  vehicle.  "  By  the  way,"  Brakenston 
continued,  "  on  the  subject  of  drowning,  as  I  said,  it 
may  be  an  agreeable  death;  but  it  is  what  the  French 
would  call  une  mart  bHe^  especially  when  out  pleasur- 
ing on  old  Father  Thames." 

As  they  rolled  along,  Annie  first  broke  the  silence. 

"  Please,  Mr.  Brak,  may  I  have  a  sandwich  now  ?  I 
am  very  hungry." 

"  My  dear  child,  of  course;  but  would  you  not  pre- 
fer waiting  until  we  are  quite  comfortable  in  the 
boat  ?     It  ought  to  taste  better  then." 

"  I  think  it  would  taste  better  now,  because  I  am  so 
hungry." 

Annie's  reasoning  was  indisputable.  Like  most 
children,  she  did  not  understand  how  waiting  for  a 
thing  could  make  it  taste  any  better.  Brak  gave  her 
the  sandwich,  and  soon  afterwards  they  were  seated 
in  a  pretty  boat,  steering  up  the  river.  He  took  the 
oars,  and  Annabel  sat  beside  little  Annie.  She  would 
only  think  on  the  events  of  the  last  few  hours.  How 
little  she  had  dreamed  of  such  an  end  to  her  day  ! — 
so  true  is  it  that  our  lives  are  on  the  point  of  turning 
when  we  least  imagine  it. 

Every  now  and  then  Brak  looked  at  her.  In  his 
eyes  she  read  volumes,  all  of  which  might  be  summed 
up  in  the  one  word — love. 

The  sun  was  verging  on  the  horizon;  not  a  breath 


1 62  St  age-Struck. 

stirred  the  air;  the  water  was  like  a  mirror,  with  a 
faint  tinge  of  color,  which  had  descended  like  a  mist 
from  the  roseate  clouds. 

Annie  amused  herself  by  dipping  her  tiny  hand  and 
taking  up  some  of  the  water.  She  expressed  infinite 
surprise  as  she  let  it  fall  through  her  fingers. 

"When  I  take  it  up,  there  is  nothing  but  whitish 
drops;  when  it's  all  together,  the  river  is  tinted  like 
aunt's  red  hair-oil."  Brak  gasped.  She  went  on. 
"Annabel,  dear,  do  pray  tell  me  a  fairy-story;  some- 
thing about  a  river.     I  do  so  love  fairy-stories." 

"I,  my  dear?  I  don't  know  one.  Stop;  let  me  see. 
Yes,  I  think  I  do.     You  have  heard  of  *  Undine'  ? " 

"Yes;  it  was  a  ballet  at  the  Alhambra,  and  Brak 
said  the  dancers  all  had  thick  ankles.  Didn't  you  say 
so,  Mr.  Brak  ?" 

"  Your  memory,  dear,  is  one  of  your  strong  points.  I 
think  I  did  make  some  such  remark,an  age  or  two  ago." 

"Did  Undine  have  thick  ankles?" 

Annabel  laughed.  "My  dear,  you  must  not  think 
of  ballets  or  dancers  now.  I  will  tell  a  story,  but  it 
is  about  another  lady,  named  Lorelei." 

"  May  we  have  our  dinner  first  ?" 

"I  should  say  so." 

Brakenston,  as  he  answered,  rowed  towards  the 
bank  and  secured  the  boat  by  its  painter  to  a  tree. 
Then  the  basket  was  opened.  What  a  merry  little 
feast  they  had  ! 

"  Mr.  Brakenston,  are  you  not  sorry  that  Lallie  is 
away?     She  would  have  enjoyed  this  so  much." 

This  remark,  it  is  almost  needless  to  say,  was  made 
by  the  enfant  terrible. 


Stage-Struck.  163 

Brak  started.  Lallie  !  He  had  forgotten  her  very- 
existence.  He  felt  Annabel's  eyes  upon  him.  She 
had  been  as  much  startled  as  he  at  Annie's  abrupt 
question;  yet  nothing  could  have  been  more  natural. 
The  only  wonder  was  that  she  had  not  before  blun- 
dered in  some  such  way.     Brakenston  lifted  his  glass. 

**You  are  right,  Annie,  to  think  of  Lallie.  Let  us 
drink  to  her  health,  and  future  happiness." 

He  looked  very  grave  -as  he  spoke.  In  vain  did 
Annabel  try  to  read  his  countenance  as  she  joined  in 
the  health.  Annie's  eyes  were  constantly  seeking 
hers. 

Lallie  ! — she  thought  of  Lallie  !  And  she  had  taken 
away  her  lover  !  Her  heart  throbbed  painfully — so 
painfully  that  she  felt  a  choking  sensation  in  her 
throat,  but  was  determined  not  to  show  her  emotion. 
She  went  on. 

"  Shall  I  tell  the  story  now,  dear  ?" 

"Oh*  yes;  but  let  me  lay  my  head  on  your  lap.  I 
can  listen  better  so." 

Annie  pillowed  her  golden  hair  upon  Annabel's 
gown. 

Brak  watched  them  curiously  as  he  blew  faint  rings 
from  a  cigarette  into  the  air.  They  say  words  are 
given  to  conceal  thoughts;  but  were  not  cigarettes 
given  to  conceal  words  as  well  as  thoughts  ? 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Annabel  began  her  story. 

"  Once  upon  a  time,  many,  many  years  ago,  there 
lived  a  famous  siren  of  the  Rhine,  called  Lorelei. 
She  was  so  beautiful  that  every  man  who  saw  her  fell 
in  love  with  her  at  once.  She  lived  at  the  bottom  of 
the  river;  her  bed  was  of  pearls,  and  her  frocks  were 
woven  from  the  fine  grasses  which  grew  all  round  her 
home.  One  day  there  was  great  rejoicing  in  the  little 
river-side  village  of  St.  Goar.  Bertha,  the  daughter 
of  a  prince  of  Nottingen,  was  engaged  to  marry  Count 
William — such  a  handsome  count." 

"  What  was  his  father's  name  ?"  said  Annie. 

"I — his  father's  name?  I  don't  know.  You  must 
not  interrupt." 

"The  count  and  Bertha  were  both  very  rich;  and 
besides,  they  both  loved  each  other  very  much.  He 
was  drinking  in  the  village  with  some  gay  young 
friend,  when  a  fairy  appeared,  first  faint  and  vapor- 
like. This  fairy  was  Lorelei.  In  answer  to  the  ap- 
peal of  the  young  nobleman,  she  had  come  forth. 
She  was  standing  on  the  edge  of  the  water  on  a  great 
high  rock,  and  holding  a  harp  in  her  hand,  combing 
her  golden  hair;  and  as  she  began  to  sing,  she  smiled 
at  William.     He  kissed  her  hair — " 

"  How  like  Lallie  and—" 

"  Annie,  do  not  interrupt,"  said  Brak,  half  angrily. 


Stage-Struck.  165 

Annabel  went  on.  "  William  thought  her  so  beauti- 
ful that  he  forgot  all  about  Bertha,  and  fell  all  at  once 
in  love  with  the  fairy.  She  kept  on  singing  and 
smiling;  and  William,  hardly  knowing  what  he  was 
doing,  went  up  towards  her.  He  pressed  her  hand, 
and  she  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck;  then  they 
kissed  each  other,  and  her  arms  closed  tight  round 
him,  and  she  drew  him  on,  on,  until  they  both  dis- 
appeared into  the  river,  and  no  one  ever  heard  of 
William  again." 

"What  did  Bertha  do  ?"  asked  Annie,  already  half 
asleep;  "did  she  die  of  grief?" 

"  The  story  ends  there,"  answered  Annabel,  and  she 
sighed. 

Brakenston  laughed  uneasily  as  he  knocked  the 
ashes  from  his  cigarette  and  said, 

"That's  a  very  cheerful  tale  of  yours.  Decidedly 
fairy-like,  and  no  doubt  conveys  an  excellent  moral  to 
the  youthful  mind.  Still,  I  presume  that  Annie 
understood  a  great  deal  of  it.  Have  you  quite 
finished  ?" 

"  No,  not  quite.     Shall  I  tell  the  probable  end  ?" 

"Assuredly." 

"  Bertha  dies.  William  comes  back  to  the  village, 
and  deserts  Lorelei." 

Brakenston  reflected  on  her  words. 

"Strange  end.     Are  those  your  sentiments?" 

Brakenston  eyed  her  curiously  as  he  spoke,  light- 
ing a  fresh  cigarette  the  while. 

"  My  sentiments  ?  I  wasn't  thinking  of  myself. 
You  forget  I  was  telling  a  fairy-story  to  amuse  Annie." 

"You  have  charmed  us  both,"  he  said. 


1 66  Stage-Struck. 

Annie  sighed,  but  did  not  move.  She  had  fallen 
asleep.  Her  head  had  gradually  sunk  much  lower; 
she  had  been  thus  unconsciously  drifting  into  dream- 
land. Annabel  made  a  quick  movement,  as  if  to 
awaken  her. 

"  Stop,"  said  Brakenston,  softly.  "  Do  not  disturb 
her.  It  is  a  special  dispensation  of  Providence.  May 
I  not  say  now  how  much  I  love  you  ?  Do  not  be  so 
cruelly  cold.  What  put  so  frightful  a  story  into  your 
head  ?  I  see  it  all.  You  wish  to  try  me.  Will  you 
not  let  me  love  you  ?  Everything  around  us  breathes 
peace  and  harmony.  The  thousand  voices  of  Nature 
echo  a  new  tale  to  her  old,  old  tune — that  which  I  am 
telling  you,  dear,  and  which  you  hear  so  coldly.  Your 
hand  is  cold,  your  face  is  like  that  of  a  marble  statue; 
even  a  fold  of  your  gown  loses  its  softness  when  my 
fingers  touch  it.  Why  this  lack  of  sympathy  ?  Is  it 
natural  that  I  should  sit  by  a  girl  who  is  all  in  all  to 
me  and  not  speak  of  my  love  ?  Listen  to  my  plead- 
ing. I  love  you  truly,  honestly,  earnestly.  Say  now 
— now — that  you  will  be  my  wife.  Why  wait  for  to- 
morrow ?  Say  this,  and  our  future  shall  be  one  long 
dream  of  happiness.  Follow  your  heart.  Follow  your 
heart,  not  your  head.  Do  not  sacrifice  everything  for 
a  dream.  Ambition!  There  should  be  only  one  in 
the  world.  To  be  loved.  I  would  reject  Michael 
Angelo's  quadruple  diadem  of  greatness  and  glory,  to 
be  crowned  only  with  your  smile.  While  you — you — 
can  you  not  feel  that  I  offer  you  more  than  public 
applause  and  fame  ?  Let  me  be  your  life  as  you  are 
mine — your  only  ambition.  I  love  you — I  love  you! 
I  swear  it !  " 


Stage-Struck,  167 

Annabel  looked  strangely  at  him.  His  words  seared 
her  heart;  yet  the  story  of  Lorelei  persistently  pene- 
trated the  mazes  of  love.     What  should  she  answer  ? 

"Did  you  hear  what  Annie  said  ?" 

He  raised  his  head  brusquely.  "Annie?  What  is 
Annie  to  me — to  us  ?" 

"  She  asked  whether  Bertha  died  of  grief." 

"  Bertha  ?     I  do  not  understand  you." 

She  continued,  "  Girls  have  before  now  died  of 
grief  when  they  have  been  deserted  by  their  lovers," 
There  was  a  pause;  then  she  abruptly  continued, 
"You  say  that  you  never  were  in  love  with — Lallie; 
but  are  you  sure  that  she  is  not  in  love  with  you  ?" 

Brakenston  was  startled,  but  evidently  annoyed. 
"She  does  not  know  what  love  is;  no  more  do  you,  I 
think,"  he  replied;  and  turned  from  her  to  light  his 
cigarette.  She  looked  humbly  away.  He  threw  his 
cigarette  into  the  river,  and  seized  her  hand  despe- 
rately. "My  God!  Annabel,  don't  trifle  with  me.  Is 
this  your  only  answer  to  my  love  ?  Do  you  care  for 
me  ?    Yes  or  no." 

She  was  honest  to  herself.  Come  what  may,  she 
would  tell  the  truth.     She  answered,  "  Yes." 

The  sun  had  long  since  set,  the  evening  was  closing 
in,  and  a  mist  covered  the  river.  Annabel's  face  still 
burned  with  his  kisses.  She  shivered,  but  with  emo- 
tion. 

"We  must  not  linger  here  any  longer,"  said  Brak; 
"you  will  take  cold.  I  should  never  forgive  myself 
should  anything  happen  to  your  precious  voice.  My 
own  love!"  Then  he  untied  his  boat,  and  resumed  his 
place  at  the  oars. 


1 68  Stage-Struck . 

As  they  glided  down  the  stream,  not  a  word  more 
was  uttered.  Brak  seemed  buried  in  thought.  Annie 
still  slept  as  he  rowed  on,  lazily  puffing  clouds  of 
smoke  from  his  mouth. 

Annabel  sat  apart.  Would  she,  could  she,  marry 
him  ?  She  hardly  knew.  Did  she  love  him  ?  Yes,  she 
knew  that.  What  could  she  answer  but  Yes  ?  While 
he  had  been  speaking,  her  heart  overflowed  with  hap- 
piness. Could  she  resist  the  prospect  of  such  a 
future  ?  Could  she  put  away  untasted  from  her  lips 
this  virginal  cup  of  nectar  ?  Ah!  it  was  too  much  to 
ask.  She  felt  that  he  was  now  inexpressibly  dear  to 
her.  One  word  from  his  lips  was  more  to  her  than 
pearls  or  diamonds.  The  only  riches  which  the  earth 
could  henceforth  hold  for  her  were  this  man  and  his 
love.  She  had  answered  "  Yes"  to  his  question  when 
he  asked  if  she  cared  for  him:  that  was  but  the  truth. 
Did  he  still  think  that  her  '*  Yes  "  meant  that  she  would 
be  his  wife?  What  to  say? — how  to  tell  him?  He 
was  still  looking  on  the  river,  and  puffing  away  at  an- 
other cigarette.  Her  heart  leapt  into  her  mouth. 
She  would  say  more  than  a  simple  "  Yes." 

"Brak!" 

He  started,  and  nearly  dropped  the  oar.  At  that 
moment  Annie  awakened.  His  eyes  outburned  the 
brightness  of  the  stars  as  they  sought  her  face,  and 
she  knew  that  he  had  heard. 

He  looked  once  again  at  her  as  they  turned  into 
Salisbury  Street.  He  pressed  her  hand  and  muttered, 
"  A  demain**  and  he  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

It  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock  when  they  reach  home. 
Annabel  went  at  once  to  her  mother's  room.  She 
found  her  sitting  up  in  bed.  Her  headache  seemed 
to  have  left  her.  She  was  excited,  and  spoke  in  a 
loud  harsh  voice.  She  hardly  paid  any  attention  to 
Annabel's  account  of  where  they  had  been.  The  girl 
entirely  omitted  one  thing.  She  could  not  yet  bring 
herself  to  talk  of  him.  It  was  so  new,  so  strange  a 
situation.  She  already  suffered  for  her  love,  because 
her  ambition  had  received  a  rude  shock.  She  had 
yielded  so  easily.  But  had  she  yielded  ?  Was  it  irre- 
vocable ?  So  she  was  to  settle  down  a  married  woman; 
bring  children  into  the  world;  have  a  hearthstone  lit 
by  only  one  pair  of  eyes;  her  home  to  be  her  world, 
instead  of  the  stage  which  had  heretofore  so  fasci- 
nated her.  Her  representation  of  heroines  and  vic- 
tims was  to  be  broidered  only  in  the  tapestry  of 
domesticity.  She  would  never  have  a  public  weeping 
at  her  feet;  never  stand  knee-deep  in  bouquets  from 
royal  hothouses;  never  rival  Nilsson,  and  never  earn  a 
thousand  dollars  a  night.  In  short,  she  would  never 
be  an  opera-singer. 

She  thought  of  all  this  with  a  certain  regret.  Still, 
she  was  so  deeply  enamored  of  Brakenston  that  these 
thoughts  made  no  impression  on  her.  She  heard  but 
one  sound — his   voice.     The  words,  "  I  love   you — I 


1 70  St  age-Struck. 

love  you!"  repeated  themselves  to  her,  and  re-echoed 
through  the  mazes  of  her  mind  with  troubled  ecstasy. 
"  I  love  you — I  love  you!"  The  voice  kept  saying  the 
words,  and  her  heart  responded  in  silent  acquiescence. 
Yes,  it  was  just;  it  was  right.  She  had  thought  other- 
wise, but  destiny  had  shaped  her  life. 

"  Annabel,  dear." 

"  Yes,  mamma." 

"  Here  are  two  letters;  one  from  your  father,  which 
has  greatly  distressed  me.  We  were  born  to  misfor- 
tune. I  am  too  weak  to  tell  you;  you  had  better  read 
it  yourself.  He  never  was  practical,  but  I  am  afraid 
there  is  only  too  much  truth  in  what  he  writes.  Oh, 
my  dear  Annabel,  all  our  hopes  are  now  centred  in 
you.  Never  marry.  If  you  do,  be  sure  at  least  that 
one  or  the  other  have  enough  to  keep  you  in  inde- 
pendence. Look  at  the  misery  which  follows  love- 
marriages.  In  nine  cases  out  of  ten  misfortune 
comes.  Alone  one  may  struggle  on;  for  two  it  is 
very  difficult.     But  read  the  letter." 

Annabel  opened  the  sheet. 

"  *  My  dearest  Hester — '  " 

"  Your  father  always  wants  something  when  he  says 
'dearest.'" 

Unheeding  her  mother's  interruption,  Annabel  con- 
tinued— "  '  I  am  very  sorry  that  I  cannot  send  you  any 
good  news.  First  of  all,  I  am  utterly  down.  Bennett's 
plans  for  the  new  Cognac  Refinery  have  proved  abso- 
lutely worthless.  In  addition  to  this,  a  serious  ac- 
cident has  nearly  deprived  me  of  my  eyesight.' 

"  Oh,  poor  papa  I" 


Stage-Struck,  171 

"  I  should  think  so.  Ill-luck  !  My  dear,  did  you 
ever  know  of  such  a  vein  of  misfortune  ?" 

She  continued  reading — "'My  eyesight.  The 
chemicals  exploded  ' — Oh,  how  horrible  ! — *  while  I 
was  in  the  laboratory;  and  here  I  am,  laid  up  for 
months.  You  will  have  to  send  me  some  money,  or  I 
shall  be  obliged  to  go  to  the  public  hospital.  Ah, 
dear  wife,  I  am  indeed  ashamed  to  write  this  to  you. 
Instead  of  being  a  help,  I  am  only  a  hindrance.  Be- 
sides this,  I  suffer  greatly,  and  Tcannot  stand  physical 
pain.  I  know  I  am  ungrateful,  but  I  envy  any  one 
who  is  happy.  I  believe  I  would  change  places  with 
a  negro. 

"'Only  yesterday  I  met  Bennett's  black  boy;  he 
was  humming  a  tune;  and  when  I  asked  him  why  he 
was  so  cheerful,  he  said,  "I  am  in  luck;  I  have  a 
bunkum  wife  and  a  dear  little  black  baby.  Massa's 
very  kind  to  me.  I  have  just  'herited  my  uncle 
Washington  Irving's  barber's  pole  and  complete 
'stablishment.  The  only  thing  I  do  want  I  know  I 
can't  have,  and  the  only  thing  I'd  like  to  be  I  know, 
like  a  sensible  cullud  man,  that  I  never  can  be;  them 
two  things  are,  Massa  Almont,  to  be  white  'stead  o' 
black,  and  President  o*  the  United  States  'stead  o* 
Massa  Bennett's  niggah.  Knowin'  fer  sartin  that 
things  can't  change,  I'm  content  with  my  lot;  J  was 
born  and  I'll  die  a  gen'man  o'  color." 

"  *  Contented  with  his  lot  !  Ah,  were  I  but  con- 
tented !  I  have  a  wife  and  child — thank  Heaven 
they  are  not  black  ! — yet  a  sea  divides  us.  Why  this 
cruel  separation  ?  Dear  Annabel !  how  I  long  to  see 
her  !     I  never  before  realized  what  a  comfort  she  was 


172  Stage-Struch 

to  me.  Yet  she  followed  her  ambition,  and,  God 
knows,  I  hope  that  her  wildest  dream  may  be  realized. 
I,  too,  was  ambitious;  yet  what  has  my  ambition 
brought  me  ?  Old,  ill,  disabled,  almost  helpless,  with 
my  only  future  that  of  my  child.  I  wish  her  success 
in  her  chosen  career:  may  it  be  all  that  even  she 
could  ever  desire.  She  might  marry  a  fortune,  she 
might  inherit  millions,  but  it  would  never  be  the  same 
to  her  as  the  realization  of  fame  and  fortune  earned 
by  the  means  of  her  own  talent,  by  her  honest  in- 
dustry, and  by  her  unswerving  ambition  to  place 
her  name  high  upon  the  roll  of  opera-singing  fame. 
It  is  a  laudable  if  not  an  enviable  career.  I  under- 
stand her  nature  so  well  that  I  have  consented  to  this 
cruel  separation  because  I  believe  in  her.  She  must 
work  hard  and  think  only  of  her  art,  which  is  a  jeal- 
ous taskmaster.  I  shall  not  worry  about  anything. 
Write  often  and  tell  me  all  about  yourselves.  In  a 
short  time  she  will  come  back  a  rich  and  beautiful 
prima  donna.  I  shall  be  her  proud,  jealous  old 
father.  She  is  to  build  up  all  our  fortunes.  We  will 
forget  all  our  unhappiness  in  her  triumph,  and  I  shall 
be  the  first  to  welcome  home  my  own  brave  girl. 
God  bless  you  both  ! 

"  *  Ever  the  same, 

"  *  Your  loving  husband, 

'''Henry.'" 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Annabel  finished  reading  her  father's  letter  in  a 
voice  quite  choked  with  emotion.  Mrs.  Almont  was 
also  affected,  but  in  a  much  more  moderate  degree. 

"  My  dear  child,  why  cry  ?  I  am  terribly  cut  up 
about  this  affair.  Of  course  it  is  not  his  fault;  but 
Henry  Almont  is  so  unlucky  that  he  would  pass  a 
spring  of  pure  water  and  quench  his  thirst  in  a  mud- 
puddle  but  a  yard  further  on.  This  refining  business 
— only  another  scheme  !  Why  not  stick  to  one  thing 
at  a  time  ?  At  least  one  stands  some  chance  in  the 
long-run  of  getting  ahead.  Now  the  climax  to  his 
misfortunes  is  reached.  He  will  probably  be  laid  up 
by  this  awful  accident,  if  he  be  not  in  danger  of  en- 
tirely losing  his  eyesight.  I  never  knew  so  unlucky  a 
family.  He  has  had  as  many  as  ten  different  specu- 
lations on  hand,  one  after  the  other.  Nothing  has 
ever  succeeded.  Money — of  course — I  will  send  him 
all  I  can;  and  then  what  ?  We  shall  all  finish  in  the 
poor-house  unless — " 

"  Unless  you  trust  in  me,  dear  mamma,"  Annabel 
said. 

Her  resolution  was  taken.  Farewell  to  dreams  of 
love!  She  must  renounce  all  thought  of  Brakenston. 
It  was  bad  enough  caring  for  a  poor  man,  but  to 
think,  in  her  position,  of  marrying  one  was  indeed 
madness.      Yet  she  could  not  give   him    up   easily. 


1 74  '  Stage-Struck. 

There  was  one  awful  moment  when  the  resolution 
was  taken. 

Do  we  need  multiplied  days  in  which  to  live  years 
of  sorrow  ?  In  an  instant  Annabel  had  thought  for  a 
lifetime.  To  give  him  up  !  She  believed  her  heart 
broken;  but  her  resolve  was  taken,  her  vow  irrevo- 
cable. She  decided,  if  possible,  never  even  to  see  him 
again.  He  would  think  it  cruel,  but  she  felt  that  was 
her  only  safe  course.  She  would  beg  her  mother  to 
leave  London  at  once.  She  would  urge  her  anxiety 
to  get  on  in  her  profession,  which  would  explain  her 
frantic  haste  to  get  away.  In  the  mean  time  she  as- 
sured herself  that  she  was  in  the  right. 

After  talking  with  her  mother  for  some  little  time, 
she  bade  her  good  night,  and  retired  to  her  chamber. 
There  she  penned  the  following  lines  to  Brak.  As  she 
wrote,  a  deathly  faintness  crept  into  her  heart.  Her 
purpose  never  faltered. 

"  When  you  receive  this  I  shall  already  be  leaving 
London.  Our  dream  of  happiness  was  too  truly  but 
a  dream.  You  must  forget  it,  and  I  too;  we  can 
never  be  anything  to  each  other.  Do  not  think  me 
capricious  or  unfeeling.  Now  that  we  may  never  be 
more  than  friends,  I  confess  that  I  love  you  very 
dearly.  We  shall  never,  I  hope,  meet  again;  so  now 
I  can  tell  you  that  I  love  you — that  the  future  can 
never  be  free  from  thought  of  you.  I  dare  not  meet 
you.  Not  that  my  resolution  could  fail,  but  in  order 
to  spare  both  useless  pain.  We  have  parted  in  glad- 
ness; why  meet  again  to  part  in  sorrow  ? 

"  I    do    not   attempt   to   soften    my   refusal   with 


Stage-Struck,  1 75 

words.  It  would  have  been  my  greatest  pride  and 
happiness  to  have  called  myself  your  wife,  had  this 
been  really  possible.  You  ask  me  to  share  your  fate; 
I  may  do  so  only  in  thought  and  remembrance. 
Good-by,  and  God  bless  you. 

"  Ever  your  best  friend, 

"Annabel. 
"  P.S. — I  do  hope  that  you  will  be  happy." 

The  next  day  found  Mrs.  Almont  down  with  a  sharp 
attack  of  intermittent  fever.  Annabel  never  left  her 
mother's  side,  and  naturally  the  moment  of  illness 
was  no  time  in  which  to  broach  the  subject  of  going 
away.  At  nightfall  she  received  an  answer  to  her 
letter. 

"  Thanks.  I  do  not  accept  your  refusal.  I  know 
that  you  cannot  go  away  now,  as  your  mother  is  too 
ill.  You  must  meet  me  once — only  once.  Do  you 
think  that  you  have  only  to  throw  me  over  as  you 
would  fling  away  an  old  glove  ?  Do  not  be  so  cruel. 
I  swear  that  I  will  submit  to  any  reasonable  delay, 
but  I  will  not  take  this  immediate  answer  of  *No.' 
Ask  for  a  week — for  a  month,  even,  if  you  insist;  but 
do  not  expect  me  to  leave  you  for  ever  without  your 
even  telling  me  why.  Were  I  to,  you  would  have  a 
right  to  say  that  I  do  not  really  love  you.  Meet  me 
once — only  once,  dear.  You  say  that  you  love  me; 
prove  it  by  granting  this  one  request. 

"  Will  you  meet  me  in  St.  James's  Park  to-morrow 
afternoon  at  five  ?  You  will  find  me  at  the  end  of 
the  lake  opposite  the  palace.     Do  not  say  No.     This 


I  "j^i  Stage-Stritck. 

is  a  simple  request,  and  one  which  I  have  the  right 
to  make.  I  know  that  you  will  not  miss  your  lesson, 
and  to-morrow  is  the  day.  You  can  meet  me  on  your 
way  home.  I  shall  expect  you,  my  love.  A  thousand 
kisses  from 

"  Your  future  husband, 

"  Brak." 

Annabel  felt  a  momentary  thrill  of  pride  when  she 
read  the  letter.  She  could  not  bear  the  thought  of 
his  believing  her  to  be  cruel  and  capricious,  and  only 
remembering  her  to  hate  her.  She  longed  to  tell  him 
how  dearly  she  loved  him,  and  how  willingly  she 
would  have  married  him,  had  it  not  been  that  not 
only  she  but  her  father  and  her  mother  were  depend- 
ent upon  her  success  as  a  singer. 

But  could  she  trust  herself?  Her  heart  told  her 
No.  Were  she  to  see  him  once  more,  were  she  to 
hear  his  soft  accents,  were  his  pleading  eyes  to 
look  once  again  into  hers,  she  knew  that  all  her 
resolutions  would  melt  like  snow  beneath  a  summer 
sun.  She  folded  up  his  letter,  and  laid  it  away  with 
her  most  sacred  treasures. 

Three  days  later,  Annabel  and  her  mother  arrived 
in  Paris. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Paris — beautiful  Paris  !  What  heart,  sick  or  other- 
wise, can  resist  its  fascinations  ?  Since  many  days, 
Annabel  had  taken  but  little  interest  in  the  outside 
world.  Our  minds  and  hearts  are  sometimes  so  sore 
that  we  magnify  the  devotion  which  we  owe  to  mem- 
ory. It  seems  wrong  to  find  trees  green  and  flowers 
fragrant,  to  admire  nature  or  art,  to  permit  ourselves 
any  consolation;  and  yet — the  womanly  breast  of 
eighteen  cannot  hug  the  idea  of  sackcloth  and  ashes, 
but  the  womanly  nature  of  eighteen  will  expand  in 
response  to  its  very  nature's  call.  Youth  impercepti- 
bly obeys  the  voice  which  brings  us  to  gray  hairs  and 
resignation. 

Everything  was  strange  to  them  in  Paris.  They 
were  at  a  small  hotel,  where  Mrs.  Edmonds  had  told 
them  they  would  find  the  comforts  of  a  home  at  an 
exceedingly  moderate  cost.  They  found  it  neither 
cheap  nor  comfortable,  and  they  remained  indoors  as 
little  as  possible. 

The  day  after  their  arrival  they  went,  like  all  good 
Americans,  to  the  Bon  Marche. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Almont,  critically  surveying  the 
shop,  "Stewart's  cannot  compare  with  this!  Upon 
my  word,  I  must  give  in.     New  York  is  nowhere." 

"  Oh,  mamma  !"  interrupted  Annabel,  "as  sure  as  I 


178  Stage-Struck, 

am  alive,  there  is  Mr.  Angel  laying  in  a  stock  of  neck- 
ties !     I  wonder  if  he  will  see  us  ?" 

"  Naturally.  We  will  go  and  speak  to  him.  I  have 
heard  so  much  of  him.  Besides,  it  will  do  my  heart 
good  to  hear  the  sound  of  the  white  tongue  in  this 
babel  of  parley-vous-ing." 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Angel  looked  up,  and  caught 
Annabel's  eye.  He  advanced  towards  them.  His 
delight  on  meeting  them  was  unfeigned. 

"  Well,  I  do  declare !  In  Paris  at  last.  How  is 
your  voice  ?  Your  mother,  I  presume  ?  Please  intro- 
duce me  to  her." 

He  grasped  her  hand,  and,  after  wringing  it  heart- 
ily, went  on. 

"Madam,  I  am  delighted.  I've  often  thought  I'd 
give  a  heap  to  know  you.  You  are  the  image  of  your 
daughter."  Then  he  turned  to  Annabel,  and,  before 
Mrs.  Almont  could  speak,  he  rattled  on.  "  How  dii 
you  find  the  teachers  ?  Some  like  Garcia  and  some 
Randegger.  He  is  a  great,  a  first-class  artist — com- 
poser, teacher.  One  may  know  everything,  yet  still 
learn  of  him.  Well,  well,  well;  so  here  you  are  at 
last.     I  am  glad." 

Mr.  Angel  ran  on  in  his  usual  fashion,  and  asked 
question  on  question.  He  was  soon  au  courant  of 
everything — the  master,  London,  Mrs.  Almont's  recent 
illness,  the  proposed  short  stay  in  Paris,  and  their 
contemplated  departure  in  a  week  for  Italy. 

He  announced  himself  as  their  cavalier,  and  quite 
at  their  service.  They  would  make  the  most  of  their 
short  stay.  They  must  go  to  the  opera,  to  concerts, 
and  to  the  theatres,  and  pay  visits  to  singing-teachers; 


Stage-Struck,  1 79 

and  above  all,  he  must  present  them  to  his  friends 
Enrico  and  Lucia. 

"Enrico,  Lucia?"  said  Annabel,  aghast.  "Why, 
they  are  also  my  friends,  and  the  only  people  in  Paris 
whom  I  really  cared  to  see.  What  a  coincidence! 
Are  they  still  in  town?  I  know,  when  I  last  saw 
Lucia  in  America,  she  always  spent  the  summer  at 
Etretat.  How  does  it  happen  that  they  are  here  so 
late  this  year  ?" 

"  Happen  ?  Why,  they  were  undecided  as  to  where 
they  should  go.  Time  has  passed  while  making  up 
their  minds,  and  you  will  just  have  the  luck  to  catch 
them.  But,  Miss  Annabel,  you  haven't  asked  me 
about  my  voice."     He  spoke  with  a  slightlyinjured  air. 

"No;  but  I  had  not  forgotten.  Is  it  all  right?  Are 
you  progressing  ?  Shall  we  see  in  you  some  day  a 
Lablache  ?" 

"Lablache,  indeed!  Well,  I  should  say  not.  Do 
you  know  that  I  am  now  a  tenor?" 

"A  tenor?     Impossible!" 

"Yes,  a  tenor.  It  is  very  simple  to  understand.  In 
America  they  are  all  fools.  The  idea  of  calling  me  a 
basso  profundo!  I  had  no  sooner  arrived  here  than  I 
met  a  man  whom  I  thought  a  perfect  god  of  wisdom. 
He  heard  me  sing.  'What!  you  a  basso?'  said  he. 
*  Never!  Why,  man  alive,  you  have  a  superb  high  bari- 
tone! '  Well,  I  thought  that  man  knew  everything. 
Why,  he  was  a  perfect  fool  like  the  rest.  My  voice 
kept  getting  higher  and  higher,  and  every  one  was 
astonished  that  I  sang  baritone.  I  had  to  leave  this 
man.  I  found  another  in  Passy,  who  is  a  positive 
wonder.     He  declares  that  they  have  all  been  wrong. 


l8o  Stage-Struck. 

I  am  a  tenor.  I  have  been  a  tenor  three  days,  and  I 
like  it;  in  fact,  I  have  always  been  inclined  that  way. 
They  didn't  understand  a  voice  like  mine,  with  its 
variated  perfect  registers  and  extraordinary  compass. 
I  have  high  notes  like  Rubini,  my  medium  has  a  per- 
fect baritone  quality,  and  my  low  notes  even  old 
artists  would  take  to  be  those  of  a  basso." 

"How  wonderful!  What  a  change!  But — but  are 
you  sure  that  this  time  you  are  quite  right?" 

"Sure?  Am  I  sure  that  I  am  alive;  that  I  am  here 
talking  with  you  ?  Why,  I  got  the  deadwood  on  my 
affair  this  time,  and  you  may  believe  I  am  as  happy 
as  a  clam  in  high  water.  I  shall  sing  Manrico  to  your 
Leonora.  I  eschew  the  rdle  of  villain  and  conspirator, 
to  adopt  the  more  agreeable  one  of  stage-lover.  Am 
I  not  right?" 

"  Right  ?  Of  course,  you  must  know  yourself.  Your 
ideas  seem  perfect." 

"You  must  hear  me  sing.  Will  you  come  to  my 
teacher's  ?  You  may  assist  at  my  lesson,  and  you  will 
soon  realize  that  beside  my  master  all  others  are 
charlatans." 

Mrs.  Almont  interposed.  "I  am  sure,  Mr.  Angel, 
that  there  are  a  few  others.  You  petrify  me.  Here, 
in  Paris,  no  teachers!  Where  are  the  great  Viardot, 
Leonard  di  Mendi,  Wartel,  Dupres,  Jules  Cohen,  Mar- 
chesi,  and  the  rest?  No,  I  am  sure  you  are  in  earnest, 
but  you  are  not  right.  There  is  a  difference.  But  we 
have  not  come  here  to  talk  music,  and  we  are  dying 
to  do  the  Bon  Marche  completely." 

"  Be  careful  that  it  does  not  *  do  '  you  because  it  is 
called  a  cheap  shop." 


Stage-Struck.  i8i 

"So  I  suppose,"  interrupted  Annabel;  "  and,  like 
all  cheap  establishments,  it  becomes  very  dear.  Buy- 
ing what  one  does  not  want  because  it  costs  little  is  a 
poor  economy.  I  am  the  one  woman  in  the  world  who 
never  had  time  to  shop.  For  me  change  in  the  sea- 
sons never  means  change  in  the  fashions." 

Angel  insisted.  "  It  is  quite  impossible;  you  are  like 
all  other  girls.  Besides,  no  one  can  resist  the  wonder- 
ful bargains  of  the  great  Magasin  (they  call  them 
occasions)^  or  their  minimum  prices.  Note,  however, 
that  each  article  is  marked  in  this  fashion.  "  Look," 
taking  up  a  little  object:  "  three  francs  and  ninety- 
five  centimes.  One  concludes  at  once  that  the  cost  is 
three  francs.  Those  wretched  centimes  are  enough  to 
make  gray  hair  a  drug  in  the  market.  In  reality, 
ninety-five  centimes  means  nineteen  sous,  and  one  less 
than  another  franc.  This  I  have  learned  by  bitter, 
not  wholly  bon  fnarch/,  experience.  Since  I  have  been 
*  dead  broke  '  with  lots  of  other  students,  the  sight  of 

a  ticket  marked francs  and  quatre-vingt-quinze 

centimes  is  enough  to  freeze  my  young  blood.  N.B.: 
Beware  of  cheap  shops.     A  propos — " 

'•^  A  propos  of  what  ?"  Annabel  interrupted. 

**  After  so  much  bon  marchi  are  you  not  hungry  ? 
Let  us  lunch  at  a  little  restaurant  in  Rue  Neuve  des 
Petits  Champs.  It  is  as  good  a  place  for  a  square 
meal  as  I  know  of.  One  can  get  everything  French 
there,  and  everything  United  States — principally  the 
latter." 

"  Ah!"  said  Mrs.  Almont,  dryly.  "Ah!  yes,  you  are 
patriotic.  I  don't  see  why  I  should  eat  United  States 
food  while  in  Paris  simply  because  I  am  an  American. 


1 82  Stage-Struck. 

Thanks,  but  we  cannot  lunch  with  you  to-day;  there 
are  still  a  thousand  things  to  be  done,  and  one  always 
wastes  time  over  an  impromptu  luncheon." 

"  Wastes  time  ?  Come,  that  is  scarcely  fair.  Still, 
if  you  prefer  a  more  ceremonious  invitation,  we  will 
fix  the  day,  the  hour,  the  place,  the  entertainment. 
Oh,  I  am  famous  for  cut-and-dried  affairs,  although 
nothing,  to  my  mind,  is  more  agreeable  than  a 
pleasure  snapped  at  upon  the  spur  of  the  moment." 

"  The  moment  ?  You  believe  in  the  Persian  poet, 
Mr.  Angel  ?" 

"  Naturally — which  one  ?  I  never  heard  of  him.  I 
never  knew  that  Persia  ever  furnished  anything  be- 
yond shahs,  shawls,  and  sheep;  ruffians,  rhubarb,  and 
rugs.     But  what  does  the  poet  say  ?" 

"Stop,"  said  Annabel,  laughing.  "  Mamma  cannot 
quote;  she  never  could.  It  is  something  about  'dies;' 
the  rest  is,  Mies.'     Time  flies — " 

"  I  should  think  so;  and  my  lesson  at — at  any  time," 
said  Angel,  taking  out  a  huge  repeater.  "Time  flies. 
But  what  about  this  poet?  It's  mean  to  commence  a 
thing,  to  excite  my  curiosity,  then  never  to  finish. 
What  were  you  going  to  say  ?" 

"  I  shall  take  pity  upon  you,  but  I  will  quote  only  a 
few  lines.     Listen: 

"  '  Oh,  threats  of  hell  and  hopes  of  paradise! 
One  thing  at  least  is  certain  :  this  life  flies; 
The  flower  that  once  has  bloomed,  for  ever  dies.' 

Strange,  is  it  not  ?" 

"  Madame,  ne  desire-t'-elle  pas  des  bibelots  ?  Voici 
une  boite  2i  gants.     Quatre  francs  et — " 


Stage-Struck.  183 

"  Ninety-five  centimes,  naturally,"  said  Angel,  inter- 
rupting the  vendor;  "that  settles  me.  The  flower 
that  once  has  flown,  etc.  etc.  Thait  means  many 
things,  Mrs.  Almont,  but  principally  flown.  I  am  off. 
May  I  come  to  your  hotel  to  see  you  to-day?  I  am 
going  now." 

"Yes;  come  to  tea,  at  five.     Hotel  Duviley." 

"All  right.  But  one  thing  must  be  understood. 
Don't  spring  any  more  Persian  poets  on  me.  I  did 
not  know  they  existed.  Your  Persian  has  given  me 
ideas  which  upset  all  my  other  calculations.  I  hate 
being  upset;  I  hate  having  ideas — I  don't  need  them. 
I  am  going  to  be  an  opera-singer.  If  a  poet  has  said 
anything  about  music,  I  don't  mind  hearing  a  few 
metres;  but  sentiment,  philosophy,  poetry!  Bah!  I 
don't  need  it.  All  I  want  now  is  to  get  my  voice 
posed,  and  my  high  C  a  little  more  velvety.  Good- 
by.  At  four — no;  five.  Never  mind.  I  am  like  all 
good  Americans.  I'll  just  drop  in  and  wait  till  you 
come.  Make  myself  at  home,  whether  you  are  there 
or  not.  Ta-ta!  Any  time  after  four  count  upon  seeing 
me.     Good-by." 

He  made  a  way  for  himself  through  the  crowd, 
pushing  people  to  right  and  left.  He  was  a  fair  man, 
tall  and  handsome,  with  a  frank,  meaningless  smile, 
and  a  head  as  beautiful  to  look  at  as  a  hair-dresser's 
model. 

They  remained  four  hours  in  the  Bon  Marche,  and 
then  returned  home. 

Mrs.  Almont  heaved  a  sigh  of  eminent  satisfaction. 
While  awaiting  luncheon  she  reflected  upon  their 
morning.      "Thank    Heaven!"   she    said,    "the    Bon 


1 84  Stage-Struck. 

Marche  did  not  ruin  us.  It's  well  enough  to  look 
around  in;  but  I  am  not  the  woman  to  be  reduced  by 
their  trumpery  tawdries.  Of  course,  no  lady  can  go 
to  a  shop  and  leave  it  without  buying  something.  I 
bought  this  fan  because  it  was  cheap,  and — a  fan!  In 
August  weather,  my  dear,  one  may  afford  the  luxury 
of  an  extra  eventail,  if  it  only  costs  one  franc  and 
ninety-five  centimes — well,  let  us  say  two  francs.  I 
rejoice  that  I  was  not  inveigled  into  buying  anything 
except  this  cheap  and  really  lovely  occasion.  One 
really  runs  across  bargains  now  and  then,  although  I 
seldom  have  that  luck;  and  then  I  generally  end  by 
paying  double  what  other  people  do.  Now,  for  in- 
stance, at  Maxy's,  in  New  York.  There  are  two 
pocket-books  lying  on  the  counter.  My  friend,  whom 
I  have  brought  there  to  buy  cheap  things,  seizes  upon 
one  of  the  books.  She  takes  it.  How  much  ?  One 
dollar.  Good.  I  pick  up  the  other.  It's  exactly  the 
same  thing,  Annabel;  no  human  being  could  tell  the 
difference.  I  ask  the  price.  Answer,  One  dollar  and 
seventy-five  cents.  In  vain  do  I  protest  that  there  is 
no  outward  difference.  It  is  useless.  The  girl  shows 
me  a  stitch  served  one  way,  a  thread  another;  the 
leather  is  softer;  the — in  fact,  a  dozen  reasons:  and  I 
declare  no  human  being  could  tell  the  difference  be- 
tween those  two  pocket-books.  It's  all  luck,  my  dear. 
•I  am  like  Angel.  I  go  to  those  shops  because  every- 
body else  does;  but  I  make  up  my  mind  to  *  be  done ' 
before  going.  This  morning,  however,  I  must  say, 
and  it  is  one  of  Heaven's  marvels,  in  this  fan  I  have 
the  worth  of  my  money." 

The  good  lady  took  up  her  purse  and  tablets.     The 


Stage- Struck.  185 

one  to  count  her  "wealth,"  the  other  to  enter  the  first 
of  the  day's  expenses. 

"  Heavens!  how  silver  flies!  Mercury  in  person  could 
hot  go  faster.  Let  me  see" — noting  on  her  tablets — 
"this  morning.  The  letter-paper,  one  franc;  hair- 
pins—  What,  hair-pins  again  ?  My  dear  Annabel,  you 
and  I  would  be  richer  with  false  hair.  What  I  spend 
for  those  miserable  steel  slivers!  However,  hair-pins, 
sixty  centimes;  stamps,  seventy-five  centimes — you 
know,  a  double  letter  to  your  father;  and  the  fan,  one 
franc  ninety-five  centimes;  and — and —     What  else?" 

"You  forget  the  carriage,  mamma." 

"So  I  do.  Carriage  four  hours,  at  two  francs  an 
hour,  with  pour botre — another  vile  robbery.  And  that 
voiturej  why,  I  took  it  on  purpose  to  go  to  the  Bon 
Marche,  and  kept  it,  as  I  thought  we  would  stay  a 
few  minutes.  WhatI  nine  francs  and  fifty  centimes!" 
She  almost  sobbed  with  annoyance. 

"  Dear  mamma,  it  is  heart-rending.  Think  of  taking 
a  carriage  to  a  cheap  shop,  keeping  it  four  hours, 
turning  over  everything  in  the  store,  then  finishing  by 
buying,  in  all,  a  fan  which  costs  but  two  francs!  As 
you  say,  it's  all  a  question  of  luck;  but  it  is  funny. 
Your  fan  is  indeed  a  bargain." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

Artists  find  each  other  out  as  unerringly  as  quick- 
silver picks  up  gold  from  the  ore.  In  a  few  days 
Annabel  was  acquainted  personally,  and  by  name, 
with  the  whole  colony  of  American  musical  students 
in  Paris.  She  heard  of  every  teacher,  bad  or  good,  in 
the  city,  and  had  the  advantage  to  sit  by  whilst  many 
of  them  were  giving  lessons.  She  went  to  the  Grand 
Opera-house,  and  to  concerts,  and  to  American  musi- 
cal soirees.  In  fact,  her  time  was  fully  occupied.  Did 
she  ever  think  of  Brak  ?  Did  she  ever  regret  him  ? 
Did  she  ever  seriously  question  whether  her  art  would 
entirely  replace  him  ?  Could  he  be  all  to  her,  and 
forever  ? 

Yes  ;  for  she  was  but  a  woman.  Youth,  the  novelty 
of  her  position,  the  momentary  satisfaction  which  she 
had  felt  in  her  strength  of  purpose,  confirmed  her  in 
her  resolution.  She  thought  of  him,  and  yet  she  con- 
tinued to  find  pleasure  in  the  routine  of  her  daily  life. 

Music  was  her  idol,  and  at  its  shrine  she  offered 
up  almost  willingly  every  tender  feeling — Qui  a  bu, 
boira. 

To  have  sung  in  a  church-choir,  and  to  have  once 
said  in  all  seriousness,  "  I  want  to  be  an  opera-singer," 
was,  with  her,  to  move  heaven  and  earth  to  become 
one.  She  had  heard  something  of  the  musical  mania 
in  London,  but  she  now  had  experience  of  the  same 


St  age-Struck.  187 

with  a  different  race.  Gallic  enthusiasm  is  not 
British. 

The  home  of  Auber,  Rossini,  and  Meyerbeer  was 
not  the  fog-clouded  land  where  Handel  and  Haydn 
societies  trill  out,  "All  we  like  sheep  have  gone 
astray,"  with  ten  thousand  voices,  all  of  which  are 
false  in  sentiment,  and  nine  thousand  nine  hundred 
and  ninety-nine  in  tone  ;  where  a  Crystal  Palace  spas- 
modically groans  under  colossal  provocation,  and 
where  whole  towns  and  provinces,  on  a  certain  day 
of  a  certain  week  of  a  certain  year,  give  themselves 
up  designedly  and  resignedly  to  what  they  are  told  is 
music  ;  where  the  Capital's  most  cultivated  audiences 
applaud  cracked  tenors  and  voiceless  sopranos  with 
touching  gratitude  for  favors  to  their  grandmothers. 
In  England — oh,  calf  !  oh,  lucre  ! — music  is  not  in  the 
air,  but  in  the  Bank. 

In  Paris,  people  are  different.  Were  the  city  to  be 
half  destroyed  by  an  earthquake,  it  would  only  sug- 
gest a  new  theme  for  an  opera.  If  there  were  a  revo- 
lution, the  dispute  between  the  rival  merits  of  the 
artists  in  the  "  Huguenots"  and  the  "  Muette  de  Por- 
tici"  would  be  as  eagerly  discussed  as  between  those 
of  the  combatants  at  the  barricades.  Not  an  event 
could  take  place,  but  they  would  seriously  consider 
which  composer  ought  to  set  it  to  music.  The  real 
world,  to  their  mind,  is  but  one  gigantic  scenario, 
created  by  Providence  for  special  adaptation  to  fiats 
and  sharps.  Of  this  world,  Annabel  was  already  a 
denizen. 

The  French,  it  must  be  admitted,  understand  a  little 
more  about  music  than  the  English.     Paris  is  already 


1 88  Stage-Struck, 

one  step  towards  "  that  land  of  song."  A  chamber- 
maid may  not  hum  *'  Norma,"  but  it  is  just  possible 
that  she  will  forget  her  work  over  a  few  bars  of  the 
"  Mascot."  Once,  however,  the  other  side  of  the  Mont 
Cenis,  Elvino  will  brush  your  coat,  Figaro  will  shave 
you,  Rosina  will  mend  your  linen,  and  Lucrezia  Borgia 
will  give  you  your  black  coffee  in  the  morning,  drug 
and  nectar  in  one.  England,  with  true  commercial 
instinct,  has  annexed  composers  as  she  does  colonies. 
She  will  for  many  a  year  remain  but  a  large  importer 
of  the  high  art-music.  At  present  she  does  not  pro- 
duce enough  raw  material  for  her  home  consumption. 

Annabel  was  soon  in  the  midst  of  all  the  music- 
students  who  work  conscientiously  and  devotedly  in 
the  hope  that  one  day  their  names  will  be  written 
high  on  the  roll  of  fame,  and  that  in  future  years 
their  untiring  efforts  will  be  summed  up  in  the  one 
word  "Success."  Who  ever  thinks  of  failure?  The 
life  of  the  student  is  one  long  April-day,  in  which 
clouds  and  sunshine  alternate.  Yet  to  the  student 
are  there  not  more  clouds  than  blue  sky  ?  The  study- 
ing time  is  indeed  the  rainy  reason,  and  the  golden 
fruits  only  ripen  with  autumn. 

Annabel  and  her  mother  went  with  Mr.  Angel  to 
spend  the  evening  with  Enrico  and  Lucia.  Her  old 
friends  received  her  with  affectionate  warmth  ;  they 
sympathized  so  entirely  with  her  that,  although  they 
had  not  often  met,  they  were  like  friends  of  years. 
Angel  was  at  home  in  the  apartment  of  Boulevard 
Malesherbes,  and  Annabel  soon  made  herself  so. 

Madame  Lucia  looked  smilingly  at  her,  and,  u^on 
entering  the  salon^  said, 


Stage-Struck..  1 89 

"Well,  so  it  is  decided.  Seeing  you  here  can  mean 
but  one  thing:  you  have  come  to  Europe — " 

"To  be  an  opera-singer,  dear  Mrs.  Severn.  How 
can  I  but  choose  the  career  which  you  have  so 
honored  ?" 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Severn  were  the  happiest  couple  in 
Paris.  Their  home  was  charming  and  beautiful,  and 
they  had  the  rare  faculty  of  making  their  friends  im- 
mediately feel  welcome  in  it — a  special  American  at- 
tribute. 

Their  apartment  was  precisely  the  sort  of  place 
where  one  would  expect  to  find  two  retired  artists. 
In  the  little  entrance-hall  there  was  a  lovely  statue; 
in  one  corner  there  was  the  umbrella-rack,  with  an 
image  carved  on  the  top.  The  little  window  had  a 
bit  of  tapestry  to  keep  out  the  light,  and  the  feet  be- 
came at  once  entangled  in  soft  rugs,  even  before  en- 
tering the  salon;  even  the  very  atmosphere  seemed 
friendly.  The  walls  of  the  salon  were  hung  with  rare 
paintings,  many  the  work  of  Madame  Lucia's  own 
hands.  The  room  was  filled  with  costly  vases  and  an 
innumerable  quantity  of  bibelots  and  bric-a-brac^  with  a 
beautiful  couchant  Venus,  in  marble,  lying  full  length, 
on  the  chimneypiece.  The  artistic  hand  of  Signor 
Enrico  showed  itself  in  the  arrangement  of  a  bracket 
here,  a  shelf  there,  a  pedestal  somewhere  else,  all 
covered  with  knick-knacks  and  articles  of  virtu.  Heavy 
curtains  draped  the  stained-glass  windows;  there  were 
comfortable  arm-chairs  everywhere  in  orderly  confu- 
sion, and  the  room  looked  as  cosey  as  it  was  pretty;  in 
fact,  a  perfect  artist's  nest. 


Stage-Struck.  191 

We  must  not  forget  the  cheery  maid,  who  was  a 
treasure.  As  she  opened  the  door,  she  knew  at  once 
whether  the  visitors  were  English  or  French,  even 
before  they  spoke.  She  had  a  very  pretty  "  Oh  yes; 
please  walk  in,  "for  everybody  on  this  particular  even- 
ing. 

Enrico  came  smiling  to  the  threshold.  "  Bless  my 
heart!"  he  said,  as  soon  as  he  saw  them,  "come  in; 
delighted  to  see  you.  Have  you  been  long  in  Paris  ? 
No  ?  This  is  a  pleasure.  Lucia,  give  Mrs.  Almont  the 
arm-chair.  You  pretty  thing" — looking  at  Annabel — 
"  so  you  are  going  to  be  an  opera-singer  ?" 

Annabel  blushed,  but  answered  readily,  "  I  am 
going  to  try." 

"Try!  try!  Of  course,  trying  means  work;  work- 
ing hard  means  to  succeed.     Doesn't  it,  Lucia  ?" 

Madame  Lucia  smiled.  Now  when  she  smiled,  she 
looked  very  handsome.  She  had  a  classic  head,  oval 
face,  a  mobile,  sympathetic  mouth,  fathomless  dark- 
blue  eyes  and  a  low  forehead,  a  white  skin,  and  dark 
hair,  which  rolled  in  natural  waves,  quite  away  from 
her  sensitive  temples. 

Lucia  had  been  a  famous  prima  donna,  and  when  a 
young  girl  she  made  her  first  debut  Sit  Naples.  The  Nea- 
politans, who  had  never  seen  an  American  on  the  stage, 
were  disappointed  because  she  was  not,  as  they  had 
anticipated,  a  black  woman.  Since  then  she  had  sung 
all  over  the  world — made  herself  a  fortune;  but  she 
never  forgot  Italy,  the  scene  of  her  first  triumph. 

"We  shall  soon  be  a  complete  party,"  she  said.  "  I 
am  expecting  another  little  girl,  with  her  mamma. 
She  is  studying  with   Madame  Viardot  and  Leonard 


192  Stage-Struck. 

de  Mendi,  like  you  intending  to  be  an  opera- 
singer." 

Angel  interrupted.  "Oh,  I  know:  the  blonde  Isa- 
belle  Stanley.  I  hear  some  one  coming.  Yes;  it 
must  be  Isabelle." 

The  bell  rang  twice. 

"  It  is  Isabelle,"  said  Enrico.  "  She  has  her  special 
signal:  she  rings  twice  sharply;  then  our  maid  never 
can  say  that  we  are  out.     We  are  always  in  to  her. " 

A  slender  girl  came  into  the  room,  accompanied  by 
a  mutual  friend,  Mr.  Gratiot  Warburn. 

She  embraced  Lucia,  and  brought  her  face  suspi- 
ciously near  to  Enrico.  Angel  received  the  welcome 
of  an  old  friend. 

Soon  the  new-comers  were  quite  at  home  with  An- 
nabel and  her  mamma.  Isabelle  looked  at  her  with  a 
half-jealous  eye,  but  soon  smiled  affably,  saying, 

"You  are  going  to  be  a  singer?  I  wish  you  all 
success;  only  you  must  never  supplant  me  in  this 
house.  I  could  not  stand  that;  I  am  become  positively 
a  pillar  of  the  household,  and  the  most  important 
member  of  the  family.  N'est  ce pas,  Enrico  ?  Mamma 
cannot  come  this  evening;  she  is  writing  an  article  for 
an  American  newspaper.  But  here  I  am;  you  know 
nothing  could  make  me  miss  my  soiree  with  you." 

"  What  is  the  news  in  the  colony  ?"  asked  Enrico. 

"  Enrico,  you  are  curious.  There  is  this  only:  Dr. 
Brattle's  wife  is  getting  desperate.  He  won't  let  her 
sign  any  engagement  to  sing  without  him,  and  he 
won't  let  her  appear  in  any  rdle  where  she  has  to  wear 
tights  or  sing  on  Sunday.  She  says  it  is  because  he 
does  not  appreciate  the  real  beauties  of  the  profession. 


Stage-Struck.  193 

and  she  must  do  something  to  begin  her  career.  She 
insists  on  accepting  pages'  roles  at  any  rate  for  St. 
Petersburg." 

All  were  soon  comfortably  seated.  Mrs.  Almont 
was  not  like  her  daughter,  music-mad;  but  all  the 
others  were;  they  had  but  one  thought  in  common — 
music. 

"  So  you  are  a  tenor,  Angel  ?"  said  Enrico.  Turning 
to  his  wife,  he  continued,  "Lucia,  do  you  not  know 
how  often  I  have  thought  I  discovered  that  quality  in 
his  voice  ?  and  now  every  one  agrees  with  me.  Well, 
I  am  not  jealous;  my  singing  days  are  over.  I  re- 
member that  when  I  was  near  your  age  I  had  been 
singing  the  top  of  my  head  off,  was  thousands  of  dol- 
lars in  debt,  did  not  know  which  way  to  turn;  but  I 
would  not  give  up.  However,  reminiscences  are  al- 
ways ridiculous.  How  can  it  interest  you  young  folks 
to  hear  about  two  old  retired  singers  ?" 

There  was  a  chorus  of  voices.  Isabelle  went  to 
Enrico  with  a  playful  movement. 

"Interest  us?  Indeed,  you  have  often  promised  to 
tell  me  all  about  your  first  singing  days;  now  we  in- 
sist upon  hearing  about  them.  This  is  the  very  time 
of  all  others." 

"  Cielo  !  I  feel  like  it,  but  I  cannot.  Lucia  will;  she 
knows  more  about  it  than  I  do.  If  she  agrees  to  be 
the  story-teller,  I  will  be  prompter;  but  this  is  non- 
sense.    I  am  sure  that  you  do  not  really  care.    You — " 

"No,  we  don't  care.  We  only  do  it  to  be  polite. 
Don't  we.  Angel?  We  are  Americans;  but  as  sure  as 
my  name  is  Isabelle  Stanley,  I  avow  that  I  am  dying 
to  hear  all  about  your  career." 


194  Stage-Struck. 

Annabel  then  begged  Lucia  to  tell  them  all  about 
her  voice  and  her  learning  to  sing.  Lucia  was  so 
pressed  that  she  had  to  yield.  She  began  by  twisting 
her  slender  fingers. 

"  When  I  commence,  I  never  know  where  to  stop. 
Still,  if  you  will  hear  about  our  singing  days,  I  don't 
mind  recalling  a  few  things.  But  you  must  imagine 
everything  double.  It  makes  no  difference  whether  I 
speak  of  myself  or  Enrico;  we  were  so  closely  allied, 
so  exactly  alike  in  our  tastes  and  ambition.  What  I 
did  as  a  woman,  he  did  as  a  man;  and  what  I  struggled 
over,  he  has  struggled  through.  But  one  thing  is  sure: 
we  never  gave  up,  and  we  never  admitted  that  there 
could  be  such  a  word  as  'failure.' 

"From  earliest  childhood  I  loved  music,  and  after 
once  facing  the  footlights  I  loved  the  stage.  I  liked 
the  glitter;  I  liked  the  dulness;  I  liked  the  old  wings, 
the  dusty  flies,  the  machinery,  the  properties,  the  dirt, 
the  traps,  the  scenery,  the  footlights,  the — in  fact,  every 
minute  part  of  the  stage.  To  me  one  thing  was  not 
more  than  another.  It  was  all  part  of  the  whole;  it 
all  went  to  make  up  the  world  which  I  adored.  The 
rehearsals,  mounting  the  pieces,  and  any  human  being 
connected  with  the  stage,  from  the  '  call-boy '  up,  had 
some  claim  upon  my  affection.  I  studied  singing  in 
Boston  with  dear  old  Padden.  Then  I  sang  in  con- 
certs. But  I  soon  tired  of  America,  and  longed  to  go 
to  Italy.  There  I  was  to  become  great;  there  I  was 
to  earn  gold  and  glory. 

"My  voice  was  a  light  high  soprano;  like  most 
American  voices,  thin  as  a  needle,  through  working  it 


St  age-Struck.  195 

to  death;  while  I  myself  was  a  slight  little  thing,  and 
weighed  a  little  over — " 

Her  husband  interrupted.  "  Great  Heavens!  Lucia, 
does  it  ever  seem  possible  that  your  normal  size  meant 
an  eighteen-inch  waist  and  ninety  pounds  avoirdu- 
pois ?"     Enrico's  voice  was  incredulous. 

Lucia  laughed,  as  she  continued,  "  Possible,  and 
positively  so.  I  sang  the  flesh  off  my  bones;  I  worked 
night  and  day  like  a  slave;  and,  with  the  character  of 
every  American,  the  flesh  I  did  not  work  and  sing  off 
I  fretted  off — anything,  so  that  I  got  it  off;  for  I  had, 
like  all  of  us,  a  mania  for  perpetual  motion  and  con- 
stant action.  You  see,  we  are  all  alike.  This  present 
far-from-eighteen-inch  waist  came  only  when  I  took 
time  to  breathe  without  being  in  a  hurry,  and  to  rea- 
lize that  waists,  like  the  world,  were  not  made  in  a 
day. 

"  A  singer's  life  in  1853  was  not  what  it  is  now.  I 
went  from  the  north  of  Italy  to  Naples,  where  I  was 
engaged  to  sing  at  the  Italian  opera.  My  life  was 
that  of  a  slave.  I  was  so  bound  to  the  manager,  or 
impressario,  that  whenever  I  went  even  back  and  forth 
in  the  town,  I  was  sent  about  in  a  closed  carriage.  I 
could  not  absent  myself  from  the  city,  even  for  an 
hour,  without  special  permission.  A  singer's  life  was 
such  a  servitude  then  that  artists  had  to  resort  to  all 
sorts  of  tricks  to  get  a  holiday.  One  I  remember  in 
particular.  No  matter  how  we  felt,  we  had  to  toil  on, 
and  the  manager  did  not  care.  Ill  or  well,  we  had  to 
appear;  but  the  only  thing  he  dreaded  was  fever,  for 
that  was  catching;  so  when  a  prima  donna  wanted  a 


196  St  age-Struck. 

holiday,  she  used  to  put  great  pieces  of  garlic  under 
her  arms.  This  quickened  her  pulse,  and,  with  a  doc- 
tor's certificate,  secured  an  off-night.  The  singer  was 
suffering  from  an  attack  of  high  fever,  according  to 
the  medical  bulletin.  Result,  a  holiday  of  three  days, 
at  least.'* 

"  Lucia,  you  never  did  that  ?"  said  Enrico. 

" Did  I  not  ?  Ah,  mio  carol  Why,  have  you  not  re- 
marked how  fond  I  am  even  now  of  garlic  ?  Yet  I 
would  not  have  the  old  days  cut  out  of  my  life  for 
anything.  I  would  not  change  them  now.  It  was 
alternate  toil  and  triumph,  and  the  darkest  days 
always  had  their  recompense  in  the  evening's  success. 
I  loved  Naples,  where  I  had  the  great  pleasure  of 
knowing  Mercadante.  He  had  just  finished  his  opera 
of  *  Violetta,'  and  the  Teatro  Nuovo  was  to  produce  it. 
I  created  the  role  of  the  heroine.  I  shall  never  forget 
the  first  night!" 

"  Was  it  a  success  ?"  Annabel  interrupted. 

"  No" — calmly. 

"Perhaps  the  second  night?" 

"  No,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  the  third  ?" 

Mrs.  Almont  looked  anxious,  while  Lucia  smiled 
knowingly. 

"  If  you  must  know,  I  will  tell  you.  The  third  night, 
only,  Mercadante  kissed  me  on  the  forehead,  and  said, 
*  My  child,  I  thank  you.'  " 

"And  didn't  he  say  anything  at  all  the  first  night, 
the  mean  old  wretch  ?"  Isabelle  looked  and  spoke 
daggers. 

"  Poor  old  man!     He  turned  his  back  upon  me,  and 


Stage-Struck.  197 

walked  away  without  a  word.  His  heart  was  almost 
broken  at  what  he  thought  the  total  failure  of  his  new 
opera.  You  see" — she  spoke  naively — "  they  had 
hopes  of  me  which  I  did  not  realize;  but  after  that  I 
made  it  up  to  him.  During  one  whole  year  I  sang 
*  Violetta  *  every  night,  and  it  seemed  that  the  run  of 
the  opera  would  never  stop." 

Annabel  interrupted.  "  Did  you  look  lovely  ?  I 
suppose  you  had  on  all  your  fine  clothes  ?" 

"Oh,  my  dresses  were  beautiful;  and  the  Neapoli- 
tans took  such  a  fancy  to  me  that  they  nicknamed  me 
la  brutta  simpatica.'' 

"What  does  that  mean  ?"  asked  Annabel. 

Lucia  laughed.  "  Well,  in  French  it  means  la  jolie 
laider 

"  Give  Mrs.  Almont  the  United  States  for  it,"  broke 
in  Angel.  "  Of  course  I  understand  everything,  from 
Greek  to  Latin  down;  but —  Well,  what  does  it  mean, 
any  way  ?" 

"  Well,  I  think  that  it  meant  that  if  I  wasn't  hand- 
some, I  was  nice;  but  I  really  did  look  uncommonly 
well  as  Violetta.    Didn't  I,  Enrico  ?" 

He  assented  cheerfully. 

"  Do  hum  a  little  of  your  part,"  said  Isabelle. 

"  Hum  a  little  !  My  dear" — stroking  Isabelle's  hair, 
(Isabelle  was  already  sitting  on  a  footstool  at  Lucia's 
feet.  Annabel  might  have  coveted  the  place,  but  she 
could  not  get  it) — "  My  dear,  I  am  old." 

"  No,  not  old." 

"But  not  so  young  as  I  was  ;  and  as  I  have  just 
dined,  it  would  be  impossible  to  get  out  a  note." 

"Well,  if  you  won't  sing,  tell  us  something  more 
about  your  career." 


198  Stage-Struck. 

''  Enrico,  shall  .  ?" 

"  '•  Enrico,  shall  I  ? '  " — mimicking.  "  That's  the  way 
with  women.  They  ask  permission,  fully  intending 
to  go  on  all  the  while.  '  Shall  I  ? '  Why,  I  know  of 
no  earthly  power  that  could  stop  you,  now  you  have 
once  commenced.    Shall  you  go  on  ?   Why,  of  course." 

"  Where  did  I  leave  off  ?" 

"  Leave  off !  Well,  that's  cool.  My  dear,  you  haven't 
left  off.  You  have  never  stopped.  You  have  talked 
like  a  blue  racer  for  an  hour,  and  you're  good  for 
another  twenty-fourth  part  of  the  day.  Go  on.  When 
you  have  finished,  we  will  have  some  music  and  re- 
freshment." 

"  Yes,  dear  ;  my  throat  is  dry  enough  now  to  blow 
away." 

"  Blow  away  !  I  have  nothing  to  say  ;  but.  Angel, 
what  has  she  been  doing  for  the  last  hour  ?  Lucia, 
you  have  nothing  or  little  of  the  thistle  about  you, 
unless  it  be — " 

"  Enrico,  you  shall  not  traduce  your  wife.  Let  her 
finish."  Isabelle's  voice  was  determined.  Attention  ! 
After  Naples." 

*  Ah  yes  !  After  Naples,  I  sang  in  an  English  opera 
in  London ;  then  I  went  to  America  with  a  troupe. 
We  all  came  to  grief  ;  the  management  smashed." 

"  I  was  the  management,"  groaned  Enrico. 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  would  not  give  up.  We  went  to  Cali- 
fornia, where  we  commenced  an  Italian  opera,  with 
serious  performances,  on  Sunday  nights.  I  wore  an 
old  ulster  during  a  year  ;  I  used  to  sing  any  rok 
needed;  I  was  scene-shifter;  if  occasion  required,  I 
was  property-woman  ;  I  was  stage-manager,  prompter, 


St  age-Struck,  199 

accompanist,  leader  of  the  chorus  ;  in  fact,  I  don't 
know  what  I  did  not  do  in  San  Francisco  in  the  way 
of  work.  With  my  old  ulster  buttoned  up  to  the 
chin,  my  umbrella  and  music-roll,  they  dubbed  me 
'■  General,'  and  to  this  day  my  second  nickname  sticks 
to  me.  I  commenced  my  nest-egg  in  San  Francisco. 
We  went  from  there  to  Australia,  where  we  stayed 
for  eight  years.  We  had  more  struggles,  more  work; 
but  success  and — " 

Annabel  thought  she  might  speak.  "  We  know  the 
rest.  Australia  eight  years,  steamer  back  to  San 
Francisco,  train  to  New  York,  steamer  to  Liverpool, 
train  to  Paris.  House  in  Boulevard  Malesherbes  ; 
comfort,  content,  plenty,  and  no  rehearsals  called  for 
twelve  o'clock  every  morning.  No  more  opera,  no 
more  struggles,  no  more  of  anything  but  a  good  time, 
with  'the  wolf  from  the  door,'  and  so  on.  Madame 
Lucia,  you  are  not  to  be  pitied.  Signor  Enrico  is  not 
to  be  pitied.  We  are  to  be  envied,  starting  out 
upon  your  career  ;  although  who  knows  how  it  will 
finish?" 

** Finish  !"  interrupts  Angel — "finish  !  How  it  will 
begin  !  When  I  see  the  world  of  stydents,  here  in 
Paris  ;  when  I  hear  of  the  fiascos  the  great  artists  con- 
tinually make,  I  lose  heart." 

"  Better  that  than  your  voice,"  said  Enrico.  "  Upon 
my  word,  Victor,  those  breaks  of  yours,  from  basso 
to  tenor,  have  been  startling  enough.  But  let  us  hope 
in  the  future." 

"  Enrico  is  jealous — jealous  of  me.  That  is  the  way 
with  all  artists,  retired  or  otherwise.  Were  I  to  get 
up  now  and  have  a  small  go  at  '  The  Star  of  Love,'  one 


2(X)  Stage-Struck, 

of  his  old  successes,  he'd  cut  me  the  next  time  we  met 
on  the  Boulevard." 

'■'■  That's  what  it  is  to  be  born  a  tenor,"  Mr,  Gratiot 
interrupted.  "  You  know  what  George  Eliot  said  : 
*When  God  made  a  tenor.  He  spoiled  a  man.*  It's  in 
the  blood,  however.  Tenors  would  sacrifice  every  one 
to  their  jealousy.  Probably  Jean  of  Leyden  denied 
his  mother  because  he  had  heard  her  sing,  and  was 
not  going  to  have  one  of  the  family  running  in  op- 
position to  him.  I  only  wonder  he  did  not  cut  her 
throat  instead  of  cutting  her  acquaintance." 

"  Give  him  time,"  said  Angel. 

"Lucia  and  I  have  seen  sunshine  and  storm  to- 
gether, and  we  are  not  like  other  artists.  When  things 
went  wrong,  we  pulled  together.  Didn't  we.  Gen- 
eral ?"    Enrico  sighed  happily  as  he  spoke. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  spoon  !  You  remind  me 
of  the  Pharisee.  Of  course  you  were  not  like  others, 
but — "  Isabelle  looked  appealingly  around.  "Am  I 
not  right?  At  their  time  of  life  making  love  to  each 
other,  and  not  on  the  stage  1" 

Enrico  looked  up  gravely.  "  I  hope  we  shall  never 
be  too  old.  She  is  Lucia  ;  and  I  shall  always  be  her 
faithful  Edgardo-Enrico.  I  do  not  know  of  a  better 
time  to  make  love  to  one's  wife  than  this  very  minute. 
We  have  had  more  than  a  sneaking  regard  for  each 
other  all  these  years.  Eh,  Lucia  ?"  He  deliberately 
kissed  her. 

"Oh,  oh!  how  compromising!"  Lucia  answered. 
"  Yes,  dear,  all  of  these  years.  But  I  am  thirsty,  and 
know  you  are  all  tired  out  with  my  talk.  Eugene  has 
something  ready  for  us.     Enavanty 


Stage-Struck,  201 

Angel  spoke  up.  "  Ah,  the  General.  Hear  her  giv- 
ing orders.  Of  course  we  will  follow  her  lead.  We 
bow  to  our  superior  officer.  We  will  drink  the  health 
of  General  Lucia  Severn,  avanti  tutti.  To  the  flowing 
bowl  and  so  forth.     We  go,  we  go." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

''Ah,  good  enough;  good  enough!"  said  Enrico,  as 
he  placed  his  guests.  Then  they  began  to  talk  all 
together,  but  the  voice  of  Mr.  Gratiot  was  loudest. 

''By  George!  it  is  a  pity  Mrs.  Reata  is  disgusted 
with  old  Wartel.  The  doors  of  the  Paris  Grand 
Opera  were  to  be  thrown  open  to  her.  This  is  the 
sequel.  Nature  made  her  a  contralto;  Wartel  im- 
proves her  at  his  third  lesson  into  a  soprano.  At  the 
fourth  he  discovers  her  also  to  be  dramatic — what  she 
wanted  to  be,  you  know.  This  is  the  routine.  Les- 
sons daily  with  Wartel;  daily  preparatory  lessons 
with  Jennings,  an  accompanying  minion;  lessons 
daily  in  French,  Italian,  and  solfege;  dramatic  lessons 
with  Regnier  of  the  Frangais ;  nights  at  the  opera; 
Sunday  afternoon  at  concerts.  One  must  live  and 
breathe  Music,  you  know.  When  Reata  went  one  day 
for  a  lesson,  she  was  told  that  the  master  would  have 
2ifete  on  the  morrow." 

"Birthday?"  said  Isabelle.  Her  voice  betrayed 
curiosity  as  she  interrupted. 

"  Birthday  ?  Never !  That  is  the  dernier  ressortW\X\\ 
the  Parisian  master.  No;  this  time  it  was  a  simple 
fite.  The  bonne  gently  hinted  to  Reata  that  of  course 
it  could  not  make  any  difference,  but  it  would  so  de- 
light the  master  to  receive  some  little  souvenir^  some 
trifle,  anything — some   little   attention.     What  could 


Stage-Struck,  203 

she  do  ?  Her  pliant,  amiable  husband  realized  that 
though  it  could  make  no  possible  difference,  still,  to 
please  the  master — " 

''Champagne,  or  claret,  or  what?"  Enrico  inter- 
rupted. 

"  Thanks.  Claret.  I  always  drink  red  wine."  Con- 
tinuing— "Still,  to  please  the  master,  to  please  his 
wife,  he  goes  to  the  Palais  Royal.  Result,  a  pair  of 
candlesticks  said  to  have  been  found  in  the  ruins  of 
a  Pompeian  palace — " 

"  How  many  of  these  fetes  does  he  have  ?"  Mrs. 
Almont,  as  mother  to  a  young  student,  asked  this 
with  an  anxious  voice. 

"Oh,  not  many.  Every  year  he  has  one;  his  aunt 
has  one;  his  son  has  one;  the  accompanist  has  one; 
the  bonne  has  one;  the  concierge  has  one.  And  then 
come  the  birthdays.  He  has  one;  his  aunt  has  one; 
his  son  has  one;  Jennings  has — " 

"  Stop,  stop  !     You  are  joking  ?" 

"Joking?  I  can  assure  you  Mr.  Reata  found  it  an 
expensive  joke.  What  with  lessons,  birthdays,  and 
mmor  fetes  and  candlesticks,  his  business  in  New  York 
burst  up;  and  the  worst  of  it  all  was  that,  at  the  end  of 
two  years,  the  old  humbug  told  her  that  she  had 
profited  so  little  by  his  lessons  that  she  could  never 
expect  to  see  the  door  of  the  opera  open  to  her;  and 
he  hoped  if  ever  she  did  sing,  that  she  would  be  good 
enough  to  conceal  that  she  had  been  his  pupil." 

"He  taught  Nilsson,  did  he  not?"  said  Annabel. 

"Yes;  another  of  his  farces.  Nilsson  was  her  own 
teacher,  and  after  gurgling,  gargling,  and  ah — ah — 
ah-ing    for   three    years,    she    was    engaged    at    the 


204  Stage-Struck. 

Theatre  Lyrique,  and  had  to  commence  lessons  im- 
mediately with  Madame  Carvalho  and  Delle  Sedia,  in 
order  to  be  able  to  pronounce  words  and  sing  any- 
thing beyond  *ah.'  Her  scales  were  good  when  she 
said  *ah,'  but  of  the  real  art  of  phrasing  she  was  ut- 
terly ignorant.  She  had  studied  at  a  time  when  she 
could  teach  old  Wartel;  yet  he  of  course  claimed  her 
as  his  pupil." 

"And  now  about  Madame  Reata?" 

"Why,  it  was  a  perfect  swindle."  Enrico  looked 
the  disgust  he  felt,  but  continued.  "  How  different  it 
was  in  our  days  !  Then  few  came  abroad  to  study. 
The  Continental  singing-master  in  no  country  is  im- 
maculate; but  he  now  commences  in  Europe  to  look 
upon  the  Americans  and  foreigners  who  come  abroad 
to  sing  as  legitimate  prey,  and  he  cannot  resist  the 
temptation  to  secure  to  himself  so  much  money  for  so 
many  months.  He  is  not  wholly  dishonest,  and  actu- 
ally hopes  to  redeem  his  promises  in  the  end.  You 
young  things  are  all  alike.  Paris  is  a  good  place  to 
study  in — " 

"  Better  than  Italy  ?"  Mrs.  Almont  was  again 
anxious. 

"  No.  Italy  is  the  only  place  for  any  one  to  study 
who  wishes  to  sing  in  Italian  opera.  If  in  French,  why, 
study  here.  That  is  natural.  I  am  interested  in  all 
musical  students.  Music  is  the  most  alluring,  but  the 
hardest,  of  all  careers.  You  come  from  America  by 
thousands.  Homes  are  broken  up  in  the  East  and 
West;  the  world  is  in  an  uproar  over  artists,  opera- 
singers — what  they  do,  how  they  live,  what  they  eat, 
what  they  drink,  how  they  breathe.     The  enthusiasm 


St  age-Struck.  205 

is  just,  but  is  it  serious  ?  Isabelle  thinks  she  is  a 
soprano;  Angel  has  been  basso,  baritone,  and  tenor 
for  the  last  week;  and  Miss  Annabel — " 

**I  am — I  think  that  I  am — a  light  soprano."  She 
spoke  humbly. 

**  Good.  You  are  here,  young  people,  on  the  thresh- 
old of  an  operatic  career;  you  are  all  mad  over 
music,  yet  you  can  give  but  one  answer  to  any  ques- 
tion: *I  am  studying  for  the  opera.'  Do  you  suppose 
any  musical  student  can  give  a  real  practical  reason 
for  giving  up  everything  to  enter  a  profession  which 
of  all  others  has  the  fewest  prizes  ?  You  do  not  real- 
ize how  much  hard  cash  you  spend.  In  my  time  one 
could  live  with  little  ;  then,  too,  everthing  was 
cheaper.  Look  at  both  sides.  Suppose  you  fail:  your 
hair  will  be  gray,  your  ambition  will  have  consumed 
your  life;  you  will  be  old,  soured  in  disposition,  and 
think  that  music  has  been  your  ruin;  you  will  have 
wasted  your  best  years,  and  will  curse  your  ambition. 
But  you  all  make  the  same  answer:  '  I  cannot  help  it. 
I  am  sure  that  I  would  give  up  everything  for  the 
sake  of  being  an  artist — friends,  home,  all — to  study 
music' " 

"All !     Oh,  Enrico  !" — chorus  of  voices. 

"  Yes,  you  think  so  now.  Lucia  said  it,  and  I  myself 
did  it.  We  are  all  the  same;  what  is  the  use  of  talk- 
ing ?  Angel  is  a  tolerable  civil  engineer,  but  he  thinks 
himself  a  better  tenor.  Perhaps  he  may  be;  but  what 
I  have  said  is  true.  You  get  but  one  answer.  In  one 
sense  it  is  easier  to  learn  to  sing  to-day  than  it  was  a 
hundred  years  ago.  The  only  difference  is  that  stu- 
dents nowadays  lose   their   heads  on   the  subject  of 


2o6  Stage-Struck. 

teachers.  They  go  to  American  soirees  tired  out 
after  a  day's  work,  sing  at  least  a  Bel  Raggio  before 
they  have  mastered  a  simple  scale.  Result:  they 
break  down,  and  decide  that  as  their  teacher  is  a  fool 
they  will  try  another." 

"  That  is  the  secret — the  teachers,"  said  Gratiot, 
speaking  dogmatically. 

"  Why,  certainly,  the  teachers.  One  comes  to  Paris 
and  thinks  that  Wartel  is  the  only  real  master  in  the 
world;  another  swears  by  Tontana,  Angel  by  Latone, 
Isabelle  by  Viardot,  and  Miss  Annabel — " 

"  Oh,  of  course  if  you  ask  my  opinion,  I  think 
Manuel  Garcia  the  very  greatest  master  of  all."  An- 
nabel's voice  was  very  determined. 

"  Naturally.  You  see  how  it  is.  Every  teacher  has 
his  admirers,  as  he  should  have.  Now  listen.  There 
are  four  hundred  teachers  of  music  in  Paris;  each  of 
them  has  at  least  ten  pupils;  and,  what  is  still  more 
absurd,  every  one  of  these  four  hundred  masters  thinks 
the  other  three  hundred  and  ninety-nine  idiots.  There 
are  forty  towns  in  Europe  where  music  is  taught  as 
it  is  here.  In  every  one  of  the  towns  there  are  pupils 
under  their  particular  masters,  and  masters  believing 
in  themselves  alone.  I  suppose  there  must  be  at  pres- 
ent at  least  forty  thousand  young  men  and  women 
starving,  in  the  hopes  of  becoming  operatic  seraphines 
sooner  or — what  is  more  probable — later." 

"You  were  saying,"  cried  Lucia,  "  that  I  am  always 
talking.  You  have  been  lecturing  without  a  corona 
for  the  last  half-hour." 

He -continued,  not  heeding  her  interruption.  "  It  is 
a  strange  anomaly,  and  one  which  cannot  be  accounted 


Stage-Struck.  207 

for,  how  people  can  be  so  courageous  in  coming 
abroad,  yet  lose  all  will,  spirit,  and  good  sense  when 
they  get  here.  There  were  many  teachers  before 
Wartel,  and  many  singers  before  Patti.  If  students 
would  only  realize  that  they  must  work  even  harder 
at  home  than  with  their  teachers,  all  would  be  well. 

"  Will  monsieur  the  lecturer  give  us  a  rest  ?  We 
promise  never  to  become  opera-singers.  Had  we  only 
struck  something  like  this  in  loved  America,  we  should 
never  have  wanted  to  become  artists."  This  was  a 
general  chorus. 

Enrico  smiled  majestically.  **  Ungrateful  scholars! 
No;  I  won't  stop  until  I  have  finished." 

Annabel  quietly  helped  herself  to  nuts. 

Isabelle  stretched  out  a  wavering  hand,  and  spoke. 
*'  Rash  woman,  nothing  is  so  bad  for  the  voice.  Never 
touch  nuts." 

Angel  sighed.  *'  Oh,  for  the  dear  old  days  in  Amer- 
ica, when  we  jumped  off  the  tables  for  our  digestion, 
drank  quarts  of  cider,  ate  pints  of  hickory-nuts,  and 
pared  bushels  of  apples  before  the  fire  in  the  sitting- 
room!  Oh,  to  be  able  now  to  stand  in  a  good  cool 
draught,  to  rub  over  faces  with  snow,  go  to  candy- 
pulls,  eat  a  few  icicles,  go  a-sleighing,  sing  all  of  our 
repertoire  of  home-made  songs  in  the  chill  night-air! 
Oh,  for  a  return  of  those  days,  of  those  delights!  But, 
alas!  they  can  never  come  back.     We  are,  we  are — " 

"Are  going  to  be  opera-singers;"  Lucia  finished 
the  sentence.  "  It  is,  indeed,  a  life  of  self-sacrifice, 
but  one  in  which  the  sacrifices  are  voluntary." 

Angel  protested.  "You  think  it  is;  but  it  isn't. 
You  are  deceived.     Why,  the  worst  cold  Nilsson  ever 


2o8  Stage-Struck. 

caught  was  through  sitting  with  her  back  to  a  key- 
hole. As  a  child  that  key-hole  would  have  made  no 
difference;  but  it  was  most  ruinous  to  Nilsson,  the 
artist.  We  are  slaves;  we  cannot  even  sit  with  our 
back  to  key-holes." 

"  No;  all  the  simple  delights  of  life  are  gone,"  said 
Isabelle.  **One  must  think,  before  doing  anything, 
before  eating  anything,  '  Will  this  spoil  my  voice  ?  * " 

"  And  I  have  to  carry  a  shawl  for  her  everywhere 
she  goes,"  said  Mrs.  Almont,  indicating  who  the  "her" 
was. 

Angel  continued.  "  We  can  drink  no  ice-water, 
nothing  too  hot  or  too  cold,  nothing  too  strong  or  too 
.weak,  no  spirituous  liquors,  no  pure  wine,  no  cham- 
pagne; our  bouillons  must  be  clear  of  grease,  our  salades 
without  vinegar;  no  beer — it  makes  us  grow  stout." 

"  So  it  does,"  said  Lucia,  in  a  stage  aside. 

"  Eat  no  sweets,  no  bonbons,  and  never  touch 
cheese  under  penalty  of  a  crack  on  a  high  note. 
Ah,  dear  Isabelle,  you  know  the  rule:  no  cheese. 
Well,  to  continue:  no  brandy-cherries,  no  smoking, 
no  cigarettes — the  paper  is  bad  for  the  throat.  Santo 
cielo  I  there  is  nothing  left  for  us  to  live  upon,  except- 
ing—" 

"Excepting  faith,"  suggested  Mr.  Gratiot,  who 
always  knew  how  to  console  at  the  right  moment. 

"  Faith  ?  Excepting  faith  ?  Well,  and  when  one 
hasn't  that  ?"  said  Angel, 

"  Go  back  to  your  trade,"  said  Enrico,  glumly.  "  Lay 
tramways  in  the  Canary  Islands;  do  anything  you 
like;  but  never  attempt  without  faith  to  become  an 
opera-singer.     That  is  half  the  battle,  and  about  all 


Stage-Struek,  209 

you  will  score."  He  smiled  sardonically.  Enrico 
had  got  a  chance  to  let  fly  this  final  shaft.  He  was 
still  thinking  about  Victor  Angel's  becoming  a  tenor. 

"  Still  jealous,"  said  Angel.  "  He  cannot  get  over 
my  being  a  tenor.  Mes  enfants,  what  time  is  it  ? 
What!  Never!  Lucia  smoking?  Cigarettes,  you 
know,  spoil  the  voice." 

**  Thanks,"  said  she,  taking  a  second.  "There  is  no 
rehearsal  called  for  to-morrow.  I  am  a  free  woman, 
and — and  I  am  used  to  cigarettes.  I  have  discovered 
that  they  are  good  for  digestion." 

"  In  fact,  all  of  those  things  which  we  avoided  as 
opera-singers  we  now  affect  as  human  beings.  As 
artists  we  knew  sacrifice;  as  individuals  we  now  have 
a  good  time,"  said  Enrico;  "and  our  voices — " 

"Never  were  better,"  Isabelle  answered  both  with 
appropriate  calm.  "  But  we  must  go.  If  it  were  not 
so  late,  I  would  insist  on  the  lovely  Mercadante  duet 
which  you  do  so  beautifully  together." 

"  Late!"  said  Annabel,  "  why,  it's  early;  the  stars 
are  all  out." 

Angel  smiled.  But  not  as  much  out  as  I  was  once, 
after  singing  at  a  concert  in  Indiana.  The  manager 
had  fled  with  the  till—" 

"  Managers  always  do,"  said  Enrico,  forgetting  that 
he  was  once  one  of  them. 

"By  George!  no  interruptions,  please.  It  was  a 
bitter  cold  night.  Why,  even  the  rails  were  dead 
broke,  and  we  sat  humming  on  a  fence,  waiting  for  a 
wild  freight-train  to  carry  us  to  the  next  station.  It 
came — and,  heavenly  hope!  we  got  through  by  the 
skin  of  our  teeth  only.     When  the  conductor  saw  us, 


2IO  Stage-Struck, 

he  waved  his  hands.  'What!'  said  he,,  'strolling 
singers  and  a  fiddler  ?  I'll  take  you  to  Chicago  free. 
Of  course  you  haven't  any  money,  but  you  had  better 
select  your  berths  in  the  poor-house  if  you  intend  to 
run  this  operatic  business.  I  never  knew  an  actor  or 
singer  yet  who  ever  had  surplus  money  enough  to  buy 
a  postage-stamp  even  to  write  to  a  rich  relation.  Of 
course,  you  know  they  all  have  high-toned  relatives 
rolling  in  wealth.  In  America  all  belong  to  the 
F.  F.  V.'s;  in  England,  nothing  less  than  the  peerage, 
of  course.' " 

Gratiot  decided  that  this  conductor  had  had  some 
experience  of  life,  and  especially  of  companies  "on 
the  road." 

"  Must  you  go  ?"  Lucia  seemed  insensible  to 
fatigue,  and  she  would  have  sat  up  with  pleasure  all 
night  to  talk  music. 

"Go!  I  should  think  so.  I  don't  know  when  I 
have  dissipated  so  wildly."  Mrs.  Almont  spoke  with 
great  earnestness  and  regret. 

"  Who  knows  when  we  may  see  you  ?  We  go  so 
soon  to  Italy." 

"Ah,  beloved  Italy!"  Lucia  sighed  as  she  spoke. 
"  My  student-days  were  spent  in  the  land  of  song. 
Enrico  and  I  always  envy  any  one  going  to  Italy." 

"Let's  all  pile  on  to  Italy.  I  am  sure,"  Angel  said, 
"  my  teacher  here  is  not  a  good  one.  What  do  you 
say.  Miss  Isabelle  ?  What  would  the  Paris  colony  do 
without  us  ?" 

"  Do  ?  Oh,  they  would  continue  just  the  same. 
They  will  be  well  looked  after.  Trust  Doctor  John- 
son to  bring  back  any  lost  voice  with  his  disinterested 


Stage-Struck,  2ii 

care  and  gargles.  There's  Bing  to  'arrange  their 
mouths,  and  make  them  as  pretty  as  snakes  '  (to  use  his 
own  words);  there  is  the  American  Exchange  to  spend 
a  stray  half-hour  in;  there  are  all  of  the  masters  and  the 
never-ending  jealousies  amongst  the  pupils  to  keep 
up  the  excitement,  not  to  mention  the  soirees.  There 
will  be  missing  but  two  bright  particular  stars — your- 
self and  myself." 

"  I  protest,  you  must  not  go,"  said  Gratiot;  "  but, 
seriously,  it  is  very  late — two  o'clock — and  *  we '  girls 
still  up." 

"It's  shocking." 

Lucia  looked  very  tenderly  at  her  young  friends  as 
she  spoke.  "  Wrap  up  warmly,  do;  night-air  is 
always  chill  in  Paris.  Have  you  foulards  for  your 
throats  ?  No  ?  Why,  that  is  part  of  the  profession. 
How  can  you  ever  expect  to  be  artists  if  you  have 
ever  once  been  seen  without  one  ?  Necks  are  so  re-* 
bellious;  never  forget  your /<?z^/^r^j.  Asleep?  I  sup- 
pose so;  ^^«^/^r^^j  are  always  asleep.  Good-night;  au 
revoir.  Thanks,  good-night,  and  do  all  come  soon 
again,  a  rivederci'' 

She  heard  their  footsteps  and  subdued  voices. 
Angel  calling  the  concierge^  then  a  door  open  and  shut. 

"Dear  me!  how  often  in  Paris  'Cordon,  s'il  vous 
plait,'  ends  all  things." 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

Annabel's  heart  was  gladdened  with  good  news  of 
her  father.  He  was  much  better,  although  his  eye- 
sight was  still  in  great  danger  of  going.  His  pride 
and  faith  in  her  genius  were  the  panacea  to  all  his 
ills.  How  could  he  fret  or  complain  with  such  a 
brave  child  ? 

The  night  express  was  just  leaving  Paris.  It  was 
the  thirty-first  of  August,  and  hot,  oh,  so  hot!  The 
Lyons  station  was  jammed,  as  it  usually  is  at  that 
season. 

Annabel  and  her  mother  had  secured  a  compart- 
ment in  the  sleeping-car,  and  were  looking  dolefully 
at  each  other  from  opposite  ends  of  their  "  lounge." 
It  was  certainly  a  very  small  compartment.  The  por- 
ter came  in  shortly  to  make  up  their  beds. 

Annabel  looked  aghast  at  the  dirty,  coarse  mat- 
tress, the  cloud  of  dust,  and  the  general  uncleanliness, 
She  watched  the  man,  then  said, 

"I  was  wondering  how  he  would  lay  the  dust  when 
he  shook  that  mattress;  but  I  understand  now. 
Nothing  can  be  better  for  that  purpose  than  damp 
sheets.  He  has  two  ready,  I  see.  I  do  not  know 
how  they  will  do  to  lie  upon,  but  they  are  certainly 
wet  enough  to  paralyze  any  one." 

"  You  are  too  exacting,  dear.  Better  damp  than 
unwashed  linen.  We  can  testify  that  this  has  at  least 
seen  water." 


Stage-  Struck.  213 

"  Suppose  we  ask  him  to  wring  them.  What  is  the 
French  for  *  wringing  '  ?" 

"  Sonne r.'' 

''  No  ;  that's  for  a  bell." 

"  My  dear,  I  don't  know.  Why  should  I  learn  such 
a  word  ?  lam  not  a  washing-machine.  I  never  ex- 
pect to  have  any  use  for  the  word  *  wring ;'  besides, 
we  might  offend  him.  He  does  not  look  like  the  sort 
of  man  of  whom  one  could  ask  such  a  thing." 

"We  will  compromise;  I  will  ask  him  if  he  has 
any  'dry'  sheets.  Here's  a  go.  Gar f on — monsieur! 
moiiilHy 

^^  Quoi,  madame?  Oh,  you  are  English.  What  is 
it?" 

"The  sheets  are  wet." 

"  Wet !  No.  I  hope  you  don't  call  this  wet.  Why, 
when  I  brought  them  they  were  so  hot  that  they 
steamed — fairly  perspired.  If  they  seem  damp  now,  it 
is  only  reaction.  Madam  is  English?  Oh,  I  carry 
many  English — no,  American.  Ah,  I  like  Americans. 
I  am  Italian,  but  I  was  born  in  Soho  Square.  I  like 
London,"  still  pounding  the  bolster  vigorously.  "  Ah  ! 
it  cracks  ;  I  have  beat  him  too  hard." 

Naturally  the  despised  end  of  the  bolster  gave  way, 
and  something  black  protruded.  Annabel  thought  of 
the  song,  "  Not  a  lock  of  mother's,  but  of  horses' 
hair."     The  sight  of  this  bolster  quite  upset  her. 

"  Take  it  away,"  she  said  disgustedly. 

"  Take  what  away  ?  The  traversin,  and  go  without  ! 
No,  I  cannot.  I  will  cover  him  up  ;  but  there  is  no 
other  ;  madam  must  have  him." 


214  Stage-Struck. 

"  Must !  mamma  " — appealingly.  "  Is  there  no  help  ? 
Suppose  anything  else  crawls  out  in  the  night." 

"  It  will  have  to  crawl." 

"  There  is  a  light,  thank  Heaven  !  Well,  I  suppose 
I  must  be  resigned.  I  will  cover  myself  in  my  own 
plaid  ;  I  shall  not  take  cold,  or  feel  the  horse-hair 
pillow." 

They  undressed,  and  prepared  their  night-toilet,  as 
do  all  Americans  accustomed  to  travelling  in  sleeping- 
cars.     The  lamp  was  lit,  and  the  train  sped  on. 

In  an  hour  the  porter  dashed  in,  without  a  word  of 
ceremony,  and  blew  out  the  light. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  apologized,  '*  but  this  lamp  has 
always  been  dangerous ;  sometimes  it  is  safe,  and 
again  not.  If  it  flickers,  I  know  that  I  must  blow  him 
out  or  he  would  blow  up." 

"Dear  me  !  and  it  flickered."     Annabel  trembled. 

"Yes  'm.  I  have  watched  it  the  best  part  of  an 
hour  ;  in  fact,  I  know  this  lamp  since  ten  years,  and 
it's  always  up  to  the  same  tricks.  To-night's  one  of 
its  bad  nights.  You  will  have  to  stop  in  the  dark, 
ma'am." 

"  But  this  is  disgraceful.  Does  no  one  complain  ? 
Surely  one  new  lamp  would  cost  but  little.  The 
company  might  afford  it." 

"Oh,  it  is  not  the  lamp  alone.  It's  something  the 
matter  with  the  construction  of  the  top  of  this  car. 
The  air  comes  in  some  way  under  the  socket,  and 
there  you  are.  It  is  placed  badly,  is  this  lamp,  and  it 
shakes.  The  fault  is  in  the  car.  Good-night.  I  am 
near,  if  you  need  anything  ;  but  you  can't  have  any 


Stage-Struck.  2 1 5 

more  light  to-night,  unless  you  leave  your  door  open. 
It  can  come  in  from  outside." 

Grumbling  was  useless.  There  was  no  help  for  it : 
they  were  to  be  left  in  darkness. 

*'It  is  my  luck,"  said  Mrs.  Almont.  **0f  all  the 
cars  and  of  all  the  compartments,  this  one  was  my 
choice,  and  you  see  what  has  come  of  it.  Any  one 
else  would  have  fared  better.  I  accept  my  fate  with- 
out a  murmur  ;  I  am  accustomed  to  ill-luck." 

*'Try  and  sleep,  mamma;  we  have  such  a  long 
journey  before  us.     Good-night." 

The  train  rushed  on.  About  an  hour  after  mid- 
night there  was  a  sudden  stop.  The  porter  again  ap- 
peared. There  was  a  confused  sound  of  voices,  a 
flitting  to  and  fro  of  lanterns,  a  smell  of  smoke  and 
of  burning  varnish,  with  this  explanation  : 

**  Please  turn  out  at  once ;  the  car  is  on  fire." 

**  On  fire  !     Great  Heaven  !" 

"On  fire  ;  yes.  But  you  need  not  be  alarmed  ;  the 
axles  have  been  smoking  for  an  hour  back,  but  the 
flames  broke  out  so  suddenly  that  we  thought  safer 
to  warn  the  passengers.  There's  no  danger ;  but 
there  might  be,  and  you  may  as  well  hurry.  We  are 
used  to  this,  but  travellers  sometimes  complain  if 
they're  not  waked  up  when  the  car  is  on  fire.  There's 
not  much  danger." 

"  Much  danger !  How  is  it  possible  ?  With  fire 
there  is  always  danger."  Mrs.  Almont  was  talking, 
and  desperately  trying  to  fasten  her  bodice,  hooking 
it  all  wrong,  of  course. 

**Oh,  this  happens  nearly  every  trip,  ma'am.  You 
see  these  cars  are  old,  and  the  wood  near  the  axles  ig 


2i6  Stage-Struck. 

very  much  older.  It  gets  hot,  and  there  you  are  ; 
when  too  hot  it  blazes,  and  there  you  are." 

A  dozen  half-dressed  Anglo-Saxons  were  stamping 
and  swearing  by  the  roadway.  The  officials  were 
running  about.  The  car  was  blazing  very  cheerfully  ; 
and  a  few  handfuls  of  water  were  thrown  upon  the 
track  not  the  truck. 

A  man  was  brandishing  a  flag  in  front  of  the  engine 
with  serene  indifference.  This  "  rag "  was  a  signal 
for  the  night  express  from  Italy,  due  at  that  point  in 
about  two  minutes.  A  prospect  of  collision  was  im- 
minent, but — "that  flag  was  still  there." 

A  stranger  spoke  to  Mrs.  Almont.  He  was  dressed 
in  dark  tweed  costume  ;  a  soft  travelling-cap  of  the 
same  material  covered  his  head  ;  a  cigar  was  in  his 
mouth,  and  his  hands  were  in  his  pockets. 

"  When  you  have  been  on  the  P.  L.  M.  road  as  often 
as  I  have,  you  will  get  used  to  this.  It  is  almost  an 
every-day  occurrence.  Some  day  we  shall  hear  of  a 
train  burned  and  a  thousand  people  roasted  alive  ;  the 
next  day  there  will  be  some  one  at  the  stations  to  look 
after  the  axles  ;  but  the  following  day  we  shall  all 
travel  just  the  same — the  cars  will  smoke,  the  wood 
will  be  too  hot,  and  we  shall  escape  roasting  and  per- 
haps collision,  as  we  have  to-night.  Our  successors 
will  have  the  same  experience  ;  and  thus  travellers  will 
continue  to  pay  money  to  people  who  add  roasting  to 
insult.  We  travel  in  filthy,  unsafe  cars,  with  an  in- 
sufficient signal-service,  with  laborers  working  fifty 
hours  without  rest,  with  cars  so  old  and  worn  out 
that  the  wood  crackles.  There  is  economy  in  every- 
thing on  this  line  but  risk  to  life  and  limb.     As  to 


Stage-Struck.  217 

comfort — well,  the  least  said  about  that  the  better. 
Considering  the  money  it  costs  to  travel,  and  the  ex- 
orbitant price  for  even  an  ordinary  amount  of  bag- 
gage, the  fabulous  sums  this  company  receives  from 
the  travelling  public,  the  discomfort  and  danger  they 
are  obliged  to  put  up  with  are  incredible.  I  wonder 
that  the  civilized  world  is  not  indignant  and  up  in 
arms  at  such  outrages.     I — " 

^^  En  wagon,  me s dames  et  messieurs ^ 

''What  !  already  ?"  said  Annabel.  "It  is  smoking 
as  much  as  ever." 

The  stranger  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  I  think  we 
are  safe  until  six;  but  in  case  anything  happens,  I  am 
at  your  service,  ladies.  My  compartment  adjoins 
yours,  and  I  shall  keep  a  sharp  look  out  for  our  hidden 
volcano.  This  fire  is  good  for  another  four  hours, 
without  getting  more  or  less.  In  America  it  would 
blaze  out  quicker;  but  here  it  is  too  lazy.  There's 
nothing  like  understanding  the  character  of  a  country, 
and  this  country  is  slow.  Chicago  would  have  been 
burning  to-day,  had  it  been  in  Europe." 

They  clambered  into  the  car. 

"At  your  service,  madam.  Pray  call  upon  me  when 
you  will.  I  see  that  we  are  true-born  Americans,  and 
we  must  protect  each  other  in  a  foreign  clime.  I 
really  think  that  there  is  no  danger.  If  that  fire  is 
treated  with  ordinary  decency,  it  won't  show  the 
upper  hand  again  to-night." 

He  bowed  and  took  his  cap  off  with  a  peculiar 
movement.  One  could  scarcely  tell  whether  he  feared 
deranging  his  head,  his  hands,  his  hat,  or  his  hair;  but 
he  meant  to  be  polite.     It  was  only  his  way  of  saluting. 


2 1 8  Stage-Struck. 

Annabel  was  shortly  induced  to  lie  down.  She 
Would  have  had  some  difficulty  in  standing  up  in 
their  narrow  compartment;  so  there  was  really  noth- 
ing for  it  but  to  be  reconciled  with  her  humid  sheets 
and  hair  pillow.  She  had  intended  keeping  awake 
for  the  rest  of  the  night;  but  as  usual  when  one 
wishes  to  keep  one's  eyes  open,  sleep  comes  in  the 
very  moment  of  trying  to  keep  awake. 

The  first  thing  Annabel  knew  was  that  morning 
had  come.  She  opened  her  window.  Where  were 
they? 

The  highest  mountains  that  she  had  ever  seen 
loomed  upon  either  side;  the  snows  of  a  thousand 
years  whitened  their  summits,  while  the  flowers  of 
yesterday  bloomed  in  rose  and  violet  on  their  verdant 
sides;  wild  creepers  struggled  over  the  rocks;  stream- 
lets of  clear  water  leaped  and  danced  in  the  sunshine; 
all  creation  stirred  with  life ;  birds  chirped  and  sang, 
and  the  air  was  balmy  with  the  odor  of  a  thousand 
mountain-flowers  and  the  fragrance  of  ripe  summer. 

The  train  rushed  through  a  tunnel ;  but  no  sooner 
did  it  emerge  than  a  glorious  sight  burst  upon  them. 
A  lake  of  sapphire  and  emerald  lay  smiling  in  the 
morning  sun.  The  cars  seemed  fairly  to  dip  into  the 
water.  This  lake  was  so  clear  that  one  could  almost 
count  the  pebbles  at  the  bottom;  near  the  shore  it 
was  the  color  of  turquoise;  further  on  it  deepened 
into  sapphire;  and  yet  still  further,  at  the  feet  of  the 
distant  hills,  it  shone  like  an  emerald  serpent,  one 
long  trail  of  light  and  color.  This  was  Lake  Bourget. 
Like  the  sleeping  beauty  of  the  fairy-tale,  it  lay 
dimpled  and  smiling  with  the  blush  of  early  morn 


Stage-Struck.  219 

upon  it.  Two  great  mountains — like  giant  sentinels 
on  either  side — stood  cold  and  grim  on  their  change- 
less and  everlasting  watch.  In  the  far-off  horizon 
spread  out  the  Alps,  lifting  to  the  sky  their  sharp  and 
jagged  range.  Near  the  water's  edge  was  another 
hill;  it  was  dark,  steep,  and  sterile.  At  its  base,  the 
water  rippled  on  the  rock  with  a  mournful  sound;  a 
million  water-lilies,  white  and  yellow,  lay  in  virginal 
beauty  upon  the  pool.  Here  indeed  might  poor 
Ophelia  have  drowned  herself.  The  rushes  were 
strong  and  sinuous;  the  leaves  of  the  nenuphar  lay 
low  and  couchant;  whilst  a  slime  of  miasmatic  green 
floated  like  oil  upon  the  wave;  magical  shadows  dis- 
tended amidst  the  dark  reeds;  flies,  knats,  and  wasps 
hummed  in  and  about  the  rushes;  and  ever  and  anon 
a  green,  bright-eyed  frog  slipped  from  some  stone. 
An  unearthly  stillness  reigned,  yet  nature  seemed 
dark,  mysterious,  and  troubled. 

As  Annabel  looked  from  her  window,  she  longed  to 
grasp  some  of  the  long  white  lilies  which  grew  in 
such  wild  profusion,  and  to  feel  their  white  waxen 
petals  soften  and  melt  away  in  her  palm. 

As  she  looked,  she  thought  of  Brak,  and  sighed. 
Brak,  whom  she  loved  so  dearly — would  she  ever  see 
him  again  ?  If  not,  would  she  drown  herself  as 
Ophelia  did  ? 

Yes.  Were  that  to  be  her  fate,  what  spot  could  be 
better  chosen  ?  She  would  throw  herself  into  the 
water  there — there  where  it  seemed  so  deep,  under  the 
overhanging  fringe  of  lilies.  But  would  they  find 
her  body?  and  would  they  say,  "  No  more  be  done. 
We  should  profane  the  service  of  the  dead  to  sing  a 


220  Stage-Struck. 

requiem  and  such  rest  to  her  as  to  peace-departed 
souls "  ?  She  saw  and  she  pictured  to  herself  the 
scene,  and  turned  from  the  window  with  a  sob.  Her 
mother  heard  her. 

''Annabel !" 

"Yes,  mamma." 

"  What  on  earth  are  you  doing  ?  Oh,  that's  good  ! 
you  have  opened  the  window  ?  I  don't  wonder.  We 
must  have  fresh  air,  and — and  where  are  we  now  ? 
Are  you  ill?  did  you  not  sigh?  I  thought  I  heard 
you  call." 

"Did  I,  mamma?  Possibly.  Did  you  ever  before 
see  such  a  pool?  I  have  been  thinking  that  in  just 
such  a  one  Ophelia  must  have  drowned  herself,  and 
I  suppose  it  was  that  which  made  me  sad." 

"Sad,  my  dear?  I  am  sad,  too,  when  I  think  of 
Ophelia;  but  I  never  do  at  this  unearthly  hour  of  the 
day.  Naturally,  it  is  an  affecting  story,  but  hardly 
at  7  A.M.  I  might  weep  after  sunset;  but  at  present, 
dear,  I  am  thinking  of  my  breakfast.  You  are  mor- 
bid. Is  it  indigestion,  or  caprice,  or  the  car  ?  Hea- 
vens !  I  had  forgotten  about  the  fire.  We  are  not 
yet  roasted — the  first  real  luck  I  ever  knew.  Ah  ! 
here  we  are  at  Aix-les-Bains,  the  famous  watering- 
place.  What  crowds  are  getting  out  here  !  I  hope 
now  we  shall  have  the  compartment  to  ourselves." 

Mrs.  Almont  peered  hastily  forth.  She  smiled  upon 
their  reassuring  traveller  of  the  night  before,  whq 
stood  before  them  on  the  platform.  He  lifted  his 
cap. 

"  Good-by,  madam.  A  safe  trip  to  you  and  your 
pretty  daughter.      You    don't    stop    at    Aix?      No? 


Stao^e- Struck.  221 


•^ 


Famous  place.  I  shall  have  a  month  of  sulphur 
alumine  and  iron,  of  douche,  masseur,  massage,  and 
misery;  then  I  shall  be  turned  out  from  the  hands  of 
good  Dr.  Brachet  as  right  as  a  trivet,  sound  in  body 
and  limb:  the  only  feebleness  will  be  in  my  pocket.  I 
usually  lose  my  eye-teeth  at  baccarat.  Gambling,  we 
call  it  in  loved  America,  madam;  but  in  English  it 
goes  by  the  name  of  baccarat — simple,  seductive  bac- 
carat. Au  revoir,  A  pleasant  trip  and  bon  voyage. 
The  car  is  all  right;  the  fire  was  quenched  at  Culoz. 
Queer  place,  Culoz;  enough  to  quench  anything,  I 
should  say,  even  one's  spirits.  Mine  collapsed  at  sight 
of  it.  But  I  am  a  barometer,  madam;  everything 
affects  my  temperature — that  is  to  say,  almost  every- 
thing. Good-by,  good-by  again.  Good  luck  !" 
As  he  shouted,  the  train  pushed  out  of  the  station. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

Shortly  after  Aix-les-Bains,  they  reached  the 
famous  Mont-Cenis  tunnel.  Once  accustomed  to  the 
semi-darkness  and  the  peculiar  smell  noticeable  in  this 
subterranean  passage,  the  half-hour  passed  very 
quickly.  They  found  nothing  disagreeable  in  being 
entombed  so  long,  for  the  ventilation  of  the  tunnel 
was  really  perfect. 

Once  on  the  other  side  of  Mont-Cenis,  Annabel 
realized  that  they  were  really  in  Italy — the  land  of  her 
dreams,  the  home  of  art  and  artists,  the  sweet  country 
which  nature  has  so  blessed  in  every  way.  From 
Turin,  they  sped  on  through  fertile  fields  and  a  smil- 
ing cereal  landscape.  The  sun  burned  hotly;  the 
twice-stripped  gelso  which  feeds  the  silkworm  was 
putting  forth  a  third  crop  of  satiny  leaves;  and  the 
whole  country  seemed  like  one  beautiful  garden. 

The  trains  went  so  slowly  that  Annabel  wondered 
whether  they  would  not  have  time  to  stop  and  pick 
flowers  by  the  way. 

At  each  little  station  there  was  a  long  halt,  during 
every  moment  of  which  officials  rushed  wildly  about, 
screaming,  "  Parfenza  /  PartenzaT  without  a  thought 
of  starting;  and  there  was  a  palsied  bell,  which  gave 
forth  such  muffled  sounds  that  it  seemed  to  be  suffer- 
ing from  an  attack  of  dumb  ague. 


Stage-Struck.  223 

But  it  was  not  at  all  bad;  there  was  a  charm  in  this 
slow  way  of  travelling,  especially  to  an  American. 
No  one  was  in  a  hurry;  there  was  a  dolcefar  niente  in 
the  air — a  delightful  do-nothing,  go-nowhere  sort 
of  atmosphere.  No  one  rushed  to  catch  the  train;  in 
fact,  when  it  left  the  station,  it  took  its  own  time.  It 
seemed  to  go  simply  because  it  had  nothing  else  to 
do.     With  all  this,  there  were  noise  and  excitement. 

Dark-browed  fruit-vendors  pushed  their  trays 
laconically  in  at  the  windows,  always  after  the  cry 
of  "  Parteuza  /" 

Mrs.  Almont  thought  she  would  buy  something. 
She  snatched  her  hand-bag;  her  purse  was  in  it.  The 
handsome  Lombard  smiled  upon  her;  he  Was  coolly 
wiping  his  forehead  with  a  silk  handkerchief.  His 
gesture  was  lazy;  his  basket  of  fruit  seemed  resting 
upon  air,  so  lightly,  so  nonchalantly  was  it  poised. 
She  stretched  out  her  hand,  saying, 

"  Quick,  quick !  give  me  the  fruit.  Here  is  the 
money — denaro  denaro;  you  understand  ?" 

"  Gently,  signora;  there  is  a  world  of  time.  And 
the  signorina — would  she  not  like  something  ?" 

Annabel  thought  she  would  ask  for  the  moon,  just 
to  see  if  she  could  get  it;  the  only  other  thing  she 
could  think  of  which  she  did  not  see  was  beer.  She 
would  have  a  glass  of  vulgar  beer.  The  fruit-vendor 
smiled  with  his  answer,  ^^Macome^birra!  sicuroy  She 
should  have  it  at  once. 

He  placed  his  basket  deliberately  on  the  platform. 
He  threw  back  his  curly  head,  he  stopped  to  pick  up 
an  object  in  his  path,  he  calmly  adjusted  his  blouse, 
then  commenced,  ^'-  Ah  tu   che  insegni  Agli  Afigeli,''  in 


224  Stage-Struck. 

a   clear   tenor,  and  he   passed  out  of  sight  without 
once  having  quickened  his  pace. 

Annabel  and  her  mother  looked  at  each  other  in 
silence.  The  guard  was  still  screaming,  nay,  still 
singing — all  is  song  in  Italy — ^^  Partenza!  Partenza!'' 
the  palsied  bell  reverberated,  "  Ding-dong !  ding- 
dong  !"  when  this  loitering  Hermes  reappeared  with 
the  beer. 

There  was  the  usual  excitement  of  the  lusty  peasant 

bursting  into  the  first-class  cars  with  his  third-class 

ticket;    there  were  the  proverbial  losses  of  members 

of    family  who   disappeared    bodily,   amid   cries    of 

"Mamma!  papa!     ^h&x^  2iXt,  madre  dSi&  padre  V* 

When  everything  seemed  in  readiness,  the  train 
passed  slowly  out  of  the  station,  to  the  accompaniment 
of  the  everlasting  '■^  Partenza !  '  The  fruit-vendor 
called  out  a  cheerful  ^^  buon  viaggio,  signore.''  Annabel 
and  her  mother  still  looked  at  each  other  and  smiled, 
saying,  "This  is  Italy." 

Even  the  tortoise  reaches  his  goal  at  last.  So  in 
the  evening  they  arrived  at  Milan.  As  they  drove 
through  the  streets,  Annabel  looked  eagerly  right  and 
left.     So  this  was  her  new  home. 

Milan  realized  all  her  anticipations,  with  its  quaint 
streets,  square  stone  houses,  public  garden,  handsome 
Corso,  with  crowds  going  and  coming,  and  its  gay 
shops.  The  Milanese  women  dragged  themselves 
along  as  though  even  existence  were  a  labor.  They, 
all  wore  dark  dresses  of  silk  or  stuff,  with  hair  puffed 
and  banded.  They  had  deep  flashing  eyes,  clear 
skins,  and  an  unflagging  coquetry  of  manner  impossi- 
ble to  describe.    All  wore  the  black  lace  veil  for  head- 


Stage-Struck,  225 

covering.  It  is  always  a  becoming  adornment,  pretty, 
graceful,  and  quite  appropriate  for  August  weather. 

Mrs.  Almont  already  pondered  whether  she  should 
wear  the  Milanese  veil,  and  how  she  would  look  with 
it  on. 

They  continued  along  the  Corso,  and  at  length 
stopped  at  an  unpretending  hotel,  which  had  been  es- 
pecially recommended  to  them.  Annabel  gasped,  and 
said,  *'Oh,  look,  mamma!" 

They  saw  a  line  of  Gothic  minarets  clear-cut  against 
the  blue  sky;  numberless  little  statues  reposed  in  ob- 
scure niches.  The  original  stones  were  gray,  of  many 
skades;  the  new  cornice  or  fretwork  of  white  marble. 
The  top  looked  so  fine  and  dainty  that  Mrs.  Almont 
said  at  once, 

"Annabel,  it  looks  like  a  wedding-cake,  with  all 
this  mass  of  white  frosting;  but,  as  we  can't  eat  it,  let 
us  get  into  the  hotel  and  tell  them  to  hurry  up  the 
dinner.     I  am  starving." 

After  dinner,  they  strolled  out  to  look  at  the  city. 
They  saw  the  cathedral  in  all  the  splendor  of  a  moon- 
light night;  they  went  by  instinct  to  Milan's  pride, 
the  Galleria  Vittorio  Emmanuele;  they  strolled  into 
the  Piazza  della  Scala;  they  saw  the  exterior  of  the 
world-renowned  theatre,  the  statue  of  Leonardo  da 
Vinci  in  the  square,  and  the  entrance  of  the  Galleria 
from  this  street. 

Milan  is  usually  not  crowded  at  this  season;  but  the 
city  was  now  full  on  account  of  the  expected  visit  of 
the  German  Emperor.  The  streets  were  alive  with 
officers  and  soldiers — such  handsome  men!  What 
quantities,  and  wh^t  a  variety   of   uniforms!     Each 


226  Stage-Struck. 

man  they  met  seemed  handsomer  than  the  preceding 
one.  In  a  small  town  every  stranger's  face  is  noticed. 
Annabel  was  immediately  singled  out.  She  reddened 
as  a  young  officer  passed  and,  after  a  glance  of  deep 
admiration,  murmured,  ^^ Bellezza."  His  tone  was  so 
earnest  and  deferential  that  she  blushed,  and  scarcely 
knew  whether  or  no  to  feel  offended.  She  looked  at 
her  mother,  and  this  practical  lady  instinctively  un- 
derstood her  glance. 

"  Yes.  It  is  rather  an  open  way  of  expressing  ad- 
miration," she  said;  "but  you  have  your  mother  with 
you.  This  is  a  classical  country,  my  love,  and  they 
took  you  for  a  statue.  I  have  been  warned  of  this  be- 
fore. One  must  get  accustomed,  not  angry;  they  do 
not  mean  anything.  Happily,  I  am  not  the  sort  of 
woman  to  imagine  insult  in  every  masculine  glance. 
I  think  too  much  of  myself  ever  to  imagine  that  any 
one  else  could  ever  think  little  of  me." 

"  Mamma." 

"Yes,  dear." 

"  Are  you  not  tired  ?" 

"Tired!  Why,  that  is  not  the  name  for  it.  .  am 
nearly  dead.  I  feel  like  the  breaking  up  of  a  hard 
winter." 

"  Suppose  we  go  home  now  ?  Let  us  take  this  fiacre. 
I  seem  to  give  out  all  at  once." 

"It  is  almost  a  pity  to  go  in  now;  the  day  seems 
just  commencing.  Still,  I  suppose  we  must  not  do 
too  much;  a  breath  of  fresh  air  was  really  necessary 
before  sleeping.     So  now  we  will  go  in,  if  you  wish  it." 

Before  retiring,  Annabel  turned  to  take  one  look  at 
the  Corso.     Her  room  was  high  up;  there  was  a  little 


Stage-Struck.  227 

stone  balcony,  and  she  stood  for  some  moments  look- 
ing out  upon  the  night.  All  was  calm,  peaceful,  beau- 
tiful; the  sky  was  studded  with  occasional  stars,  and 
the  young  crescent  coyly  floated  in  its  sea  of  azure. 
The  bride's-cake  was  a  mass  of  beautiful  light  and 
shadows.     What  a  monument  to  Art! 

She  was  convinced  she  should  like  Milan.  There 
was  something  about  the  city  which  was  particularly 
sympathetic;  besides,  the  natural  interest  she  felt  in 
any  great  musical  centre  was  here  redoubled.  Milan 
was  to  be  her  god-mother  in  song;  here  she  was  to 
learn  to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  her  great  predeces- 
sors; here,  at  the  baptismal-font  of  Art,  was  she  to 
bend  her  head  to  receive  the  divine  blessing. 

She  looked  out  again  on  the  night,  on  the  golden 
stars  in  their  sapphire  sea,  on  the  cathedral  lying  so 
faint  against  the  horizon.  She  thought,  not  of  art,  but 
of  her  lover.  Alas!  where  was  he?  Did  the  same 
moon  shine  upon  him?  Did  he  think  of  her?  and 
would  she  ever  see  him  again  ?     Would  she  ever — 

"Annabel." 

"Yes,  mamma." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  do  not  stand  mooning  at  that 
window!  Think  of  your  voice.  No  shawl  over'your 
shoulders,  nothing  on  your  head,  no  foulard  on  your 
throat,  there  you  are,  studying  the  architecture  of 
heaven;  not  as  Leonardo  da  Vinci  did,  but  for  noth- 
ing.    Do  come  to  bed.     You  will  catch  cold." 

"Good-night,  mamma.  We  are  in  Italy;  suppose  I 
say,  ^  Buona  notte'  ?" 

She  kissed  her  mother,  arid  went  in  silence  to  her 
room. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

A  WELL-KNOWN  American  official  inhabited  the 
piano  nobile  of  a  fine  old  Milanese  palace. 

The  piano  nobile  means  about  the  fourth  floor,  in 
English.  Annabel  and  her  mother  tugged  upstairs, 
and  breathlessly  asked  for  Mr.  Randall.  He  was  in. 
They  had  a  charming  visit,  and  he  introduced  them 
to  his  family.  Miss  Randall,  the  daughter,  was  a 
pretty,  amiable  girl  of  about  eighteen;  the  son  was  a 
fine  young  man  of  twenty;  and  Mrs.  Randall  was  a 
kind,  motherly  woman.  They  were  soon  au  courant  of 
Milan,  teachers,  students,  theatres,  and  so  on. 

"My  teacher,"  said  Miss  Randall,  "is  Lamperti. 
He  makes  artists  from  nothing.  Albani,  Fricci, 
Waldemann,  Campanni,  as  he  says,  all  came  to  him 
inocentissiini  of  voice  and  talent.  He  made  them  all 
with  his  method.  His  rooms  are  so  pleasant:  the 
pictures  of  all  the  great  artists  on  the  walls  were 
given  him  by  his  pupils,  as  trophies  of  their  successes. 
It  is  quite  imposing,  I  assure  you.  His  method  is  the 
great  scheme  of  the  day.  He  says  that  tutta  la  voce  si 
trova  nella pancia.  You  understand  Italian?  Well,  of 
course  you  know  that  means  that  all  of  the  voice 
comes  from,  or  is  found  in  the  pit  of,  the  stomach. 
The  throat  plays  a  very  insignificant  part;  in  fact,  it 
helps  a  little,  but  the  real  voice  is  in  the  stomach,  or 
— excuse  me,  I  must  again  used  the  "woi-dpaticia.     The 


Stage-Struck.  229 

muscles  of  the  legs  and  body  all  help;  in  fact,  the 
voice  comes  from  the  muscles,  and  it  is  a  mistaken 
idea  to  think  that  any  one  sings  from  the  throat." 

**  You  amaze  me!"  said  Annabel,  "I  am  sure  that 
all  the  voice  I  have  comes  from  mine;  but,  then,  lam 
not  a  ventriloquist."     She  was  indeed  dumbfounded. 

"  You  think  it  comes  from  there;  but  Lamperti  will 
soon  show  you  the  difference.  Why,  the  proof  is,  that 
I  can  sing  just  as  well  with  a  sore  throat  as  without 
one;  but  I  can't  with  a  sore  panda.  It's  all  in  the 
method." 

"  I  am  quite  astonished." 

"Yes;  he  is  indeed  a  famous  man.  Then,  too,  his 
changes  and  variations  upon  the  old  operas — why,  he 
nearly  re-writes  them.  His  cadences  and  coronas  for 
Lucia,  Sonnambula,  and  Puritani  are  so  elaborate 
and  scientific  that  even  old  opera-goers  can  scarcely 
recognize  a  note  of  the  original  score.  He  is  wonder- 
ful. Then  his  phrasing!  Well,  you  should  hear  and 
see  him  give  a  lesson.  He  does  not  talk  Italian  him- 
self; he  speaks  the  vilest  of  vile  Milanese /^/my  but 
he  makes  others  speak  a  pretta  lingua^  I  can  tell  you. 
Just  slip  up  on  any  hard  word,  and  he  immediately 
will  put  you  right — musically." 

'*  Musically  ?" 

"  Yes.  You  are  singing,  aren't  you  ?  Well,  any- 
body can  talk  a  word  right;  the  thing  is  to  sing  it 
right.  To  show  you  where  the  sounds  come  from,  he 
has  a  short  rod  or  stick  with  which  he  punches  you 
all  over." 

"Oh!  I  don't  think  that  I  should  like  that." 

"Oh!    you   think   you   would   not;  but  you  would 


230  Stage-Struck. 

have  to  like  it.  It  is  part  of  the  method.  That  is  his 
way  of  demonstrating  where  the  sound  comes  from. 
Then  he  feels — " 

"  Well!"  Mrs.  Almont  flounced  up  in  horror  at  this. 
"  If  that  is  the  sort  of  a  man  your  teacher  is,  I  don't 
think  much  of  him.  My  daughter  has  come  to  Milan 
to  study  with  a  professor  of  music,  not  of  anatomy. 
What  on  earth  does  he  go  poking  around  with  that 
stick  for  ?    I  would  not  stand  it." 

"Many  object,"  said  Miss  Randall,  humbly;  "but 
one  does  not  like  to  complain  of  such  a  trifle.  It  is 
so  little  compared  with  the  great  field  of  art  to  which 
he  introduces  you.  I  understood  his  method  at  once, 
so  we  only  had  one  seance  of  rib-hunting.  Besides,  he 
is  the  most  notorious  teacher  in  Milan,  and  he  can 
make  every  theatre  engage  any  artist  he  likes.  Why, 
he  boasts  that  the  London  Opera  is  perfectly  under 
his  thumb,  and  every  one  knows  it." 

"  And  the  other  teachers — who  are  they  ?  I  hope  not 
at  all  like  Lamperti,"  said  Annabel. 

"Oh  no!  There  is  San  Giacomo.  He  is  famous. 
He  never  changes  a  pupil's  voice.  Whatever  it  was, 
so  he  lets  it  remain;  but  he  only  teaches  one  how  to 
sing — nothing  else." 

"  How  to  sing!-  Nothing  else!  Why,  what  else  can 
one  wish  for  ?     That  is  all." 

"Oh,  dear  me!  no;  that  is  not  all.  You  think  it  is 
all,  but  it  is  not  all.  Voices  should  be  improved, 
strengthened,  beautified.  But  San  Giacomo  pretends 
to  nothing  of  that.  He  merely  indicates  the  right 
way  to  sing  scales,  to  <^o  fiorttura,  to  get  one's  self  up 
in  operas,   to  be  able  to  phrase,  and  so  on.     If  the 


Stage-Struch  231 

voice  improves  under  his  r^gtme^  well  and  good;  if 
not,  it  is  not  his  fault.  People  usually  go  to  him  to 
get  up  a  repertoire?* 

"  And  the  others  ?" 

*'  There  are  Madam  Philippi-Vaneroi,  a  magnificent 
teacher;  Lovalimi,  excellent  too;  and  the  old  Trivulsi, 
Grisi's  cousin — " 

"  Grisi's  cousin!  I  think  I  should  like  to  go  to 
him,"  said  Annabel,  quickly.     "  What  is  he  like  ?" 

"Li4ce?    Well—" 

At  this  moment  they  heard  a  bell  ring,  and  a  short 
little  girl  was  shown  into  the  room. 

"Ah!"  said  Mrs.  Randall,  introducing  them,  "you 
asked  about  Trivulsi.  She  is  just  the  person  to  tell 
you  all  about  him.  She  raves  over  him.  She  is  a 
convert  from  \ht,  pancia  method,  and  swears  only  by 
the  old  maestro." 

Alice  Weiss  was  German.  She  looked  out  from 
two  very  innocent  blue  eyes,  and  commenced  talking 
at  once. 

"  My  master  is  old.  He  is  a  paralytic,  and  lies  all 
the  time  upon  a  bed.  There  are  little  birds  running 
around  the  room;  sometimes  they  eat  from  his  hand. 
Federico  is  his  nephew,  and  he  plays  the  piano;  the 
signora  is  his  wife.  She  was  once  a  great  singer,  and 
when  a  pupil  cannot  get  a  run  right,  she  sings  and 
shows  the  way.  I  adore  the  master.  He  is  honest, 
and  he  teaches  for  love.  When  you  have  no  money, 
he  teaches  you  just  the  same.  'You  will  pay  me 
when  you  become  a  great  artist,*  he  says,  and  the 
lessons  go  on." 

"What  a  disinterested  old  man!"  said  Mrs.  Almonte 


232  Stage-Struck, 

enthusiastically.     "  But  if,  if — "  hesitatingly — "  the  les- 
sons are  not  good  ?" 

"  Oh,  that  is  impossible  !  Why,  he  taught  Francis 
Joseph  of  Austria." 

"  Did  Francis  sing  ?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  he  sang;  but  he  should 
have  sung,  if  the  master  taught  him.  Besides,  he 
taught  Lamperti  himself." 

Great  excitement  followed  Alice's  words.  Miss 
Randall  looked  up  severely. 

"  Alice,  you  always  insist  upon  that.  Now,  what  did 
he  teach  him  ?" 

"  Why,  Trivulsi  was  a  great  master  when  Lamperti 
was  still  a  young  man.  Lamperti  swept  out  the  aisles 
of  the  college;  and  when  lessons  were  over,  he  used 
to  say  to  Trivulsi,  *  How  may  I  also  teach  people  to 
sing?'  Then  the  master  give  him  lessons,  and  in  a 
short  while  he  heard  that  his  ex-sweeper  and  accom- 
panist (he  had  gradually  got  to  be  this)  was  a  pro- 
fessor in  vocal  music.  Just  think  of  it !  Trivulsi  was 
delighted,  and  always  said,  '  He  was  a  good  sweeper; 
he  may  also  be  a  good  teacher.  But  one  thing  is  cer- 
tain: he  is  a  very  clever  man.'  " 

"  There,  there  !  I  told  you,"  Miss  Randall  said  ex- 
citedly— "  I  told  you  he  was  a  clever  man." 

"Yes;  but  a  clever  man  is  not  enough,"  said  Mrs. 
Almont.  "  He  may  be  a  clever  man,  and  a  very  bad 
singing-master.  I  am  a  clever  woman  at  some  things. 
I  can  build  a  fire,  but  I  could  not  build  a  church;  I 
can  make  a  bonnet,  but  I  could  not  make  a  house." 

"  You  are  rather  just  than  generous  toward  your- 
self." 


Stage-Struck.  233 

What !  M^.  Randall's  voice  at  last  !  He  had  not 
spoken  before  during  the  whole  of  the  visit. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Almont,  "I  am  just;  and  what  I 
like  in  Trivulsi  is  that  he  also  seems  just.  He  gives 
the  man  his  due  as  he  understands  it.  Annabel,  we 
will  go  to  him.     He  strikes  me  as  an  honest  master." 

Alice  was  delighted.  "I  will  take  you.  Come,  come 
at  once.  My  lesson  is  in  an  hour,  and  you  shall  hear 
it." 

Miss  Randall  spoke  up.  "  Alice,  you  shall  not  take 
her  off  in  this  fashion."  Pleadingly,  "Do  you  not 
think — will  you  not  try  Lamperti  ?  If  you  do  not 
like  him,  it  will  be  easy  to  leave." 

"Easy  to  leave  !"  screamed  Alice.  "It  is  anything 
but  easy.  First  he  asks  you  to  sign  a  paper  saying 
that  you  will  study  with  him  so  long.  He  says  that 
you  will  lose  your  voice  at  first  with  his  method,  but 
that  it  comes  back  again  after  three  or  four  months. 
In  the  mean  time,  you  must  obey  blindly — to  use  his 
own  words,  *  Come  un  cane  ' — and  ask  no  questions, 
and  be  as  I  was — sick  as  a  dog,  with  no  voice,  and  a 
stomach-ache  all  the  time.  Oh,  you  think  I  exagger- 
ate. When  I  could  not  sing,  he  said,  *  It  is  all  right. 
The  method  is  now  taking  its  course.'  I  left  him 
three  times,  when  I  had  no  more  voice;  then  I  went 
back  again.  I  said,  *It  is  impossible.  He  is  the  great 
master;  I  am  the  fool.  What  all  the  world  finds  per- 
fect must  be  perfect.'" 

"  But  you  went  finally  to  the  other  maestro  ?"  asked 
Annabel. 

"Ah  !  I  was  six  months  without  singing,  and  my 
faith  grew  weak.     I  met  the  old   maestro  by  chance. 


234  Stage-Struck . 

and — and  it  was  all  over  with  the  other.  Now  I  eat 
well,  my  legs  are  not  stiff,  and  I  never  have  the 
stomach-ache.  I  sing  better,  although  my  voice  can 
never  be  what  it  was:  a  thoroughly  spoiled  voice  is 
spoiled  forever.  Nothing  brings  it  back.  I  am  young; 
so  with  time  I  may  be  able  to  restore  mine  to  some- 
thing of  what  it  was  :  but  it  will  never  be  the  same. 
It  is  no  longer  sweet;  and  I  scream  when  I  take  my 
top  notes — not  much,  but  I  scream." 

"  Why,  you  poor  dear  thing  !  And  you  are  not 
heart-broken  ?" 

"  No;  I  am  young.  I  try;  I  do  the  best  I  can. 
I  am—" 

"  She  is  a  German,"  said  Miss  Randall,  stoically. 
"  That  also  explains  many  things.  In  the  first  place, 
German  voices  are  unbreakable.  You  do  Lamperti 
honor  when  you  say  that  he  could  ever  spoil  a  Ger- 
man voice.  It  is  an  impossibility.  When  years  of 
Wagner  are  inefficacious,  how  can  any  other  earthly 
wear  and  tear  affect  the  Teutonic  organ  ?" 

"Well,  let  us  leave  the  voice,"  continued  Alice. 
*'  I  had  such  pain  to  draw  breath  from  the  calves  of 
my  legs  and  my  diaphragm,  that  I  could  not  digest 
my  food.  It  was  the  same  thing — worse,  even;  ruining 
my  general  health  was  more  hurtful  than  spoiling  my 
voice.  After  four  lessons,  when  I  attempted  to  eat,  I 
felt  just  like  being  sea-sick." 

"  Is  this  true  ?"  said  Mrs.  Almont,  addressing  Miss 
Randall. 

"  True  ?  Yes,  and  no" — sturdily.  "  I  am  very  honest. 
It  took  me  a  long  time  to  get  used  to  the  method,  but 
now  I  like  it.     My  waist  has  doubled  in  size,  because 


St  age-Struck.  235 

the  abdominal  muscles  are  strengthened;  but  natu- 
rally to  sing  from  the  stomach  you  must  have  a  strong 
pancia^  or  the  method  will  certainly  tire  and  exhaust 
you  at  first." 

Mrs.  Almont  got  up,  saying,  "  Great  Heavens!  and 
this  is  learning  to  sing!  Well,  dear  Miss  Randall,  I 
must  thank  you  a  thousand  times  for  your  kind  and 
explicit  description  of  the  teachers  and  the  methods. 
Who  could  know  so  well  as  yourself  ?  I  think,  how- 
ever, that  we  will  accept  Miss  Weiss's  invitation  and 
go  to  see  the  old  maestro." 

Miss  Randall  smiled.  "Ah,  farewell.  If  you  once 
go  there,  you  will  never  try  any  other  master.  Still,  I 
never  attempt  to  prejudice  any  one  coming  to  Milan 
to  learn  to  sing.  I  only  say  what  I  honestly  think, 
and  Lamperti  is  the  only  great  teacher  in  this  city — 
in  Italy,  in  fact ;  and  if  you  really  wish  to  become  an 
opera-singer,  he  is  the  only  man  to  go  to;  although, 
in  justice,  I  admit  that  the  others  are  all  more  or  less 
good.    Au  revoir^ 

"  We  will  come  again  to  see  you.  Thanks  for  so 
delightful  a  call." 

"  I  am  sorry  that  you  will  not  try  Lamperti  ;  but  if 
you  won't,  you  won't;  that  is  all.  Now,  my  next  ap- 
pearance— " 

"  Oh  !  you  sing,  of  course.     What  is  your  voice  ?" 

Annabel  was  most  interested. 

"Ah!"  —  playfully — "nothing  about  me  or  my 
voice  to-day  ;  I  will  tell  you  some  time,  or  Alice  will 
— nl  vero  Alicia  mia  ?" 

"I  will" — cheerfully — "while  we  are  going  to  Tri- 
vulsi  in  the  omnibus.    But,  come;  we  must  start  now  or 


236  Stage-Struck, 

I  shall  be  late,  and  the  maestro  would  not  be  pleased. 
Good-by,  everybody  ;  good-by." 

They  were  soon  descending  the  four  long  flights 
which  led  from  the  piano  nobile.  Miss  Randall  came 
to  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  it  over.  Should  you  care  to 
hear  my  lesson  ?  It  can  do  no  harm.  I  am  not  preju- 
diced, but  it  does  seem  a  pity  to  be  in  Rftlan  and  to 
neglect  the  opportunity  of  studying  with  such  a 
teacher.  I  assure  you  there  is  only  one  genuine/^/zr/« 
method  in  all  the  world.  You  will  come  to  the  lesson  ? 
Ah  !  delighted.  When  ?  Well,  I  will  let  you  know. 
The  fact  is,  I  am  a  little  tired  now,  and  I  am  resting. 
The  master — he  is  such  a  great  man — always  asks  so 
carefully  if  I  eat  and  drink  well,  if  I  sleep,  and  if  my 
lessons  tire  me.  They  never  do;  but  I  work  like  a 
slave.  It  just  happens  that  I  am  tired  now,  so  natu- 
rally I  must  rest.    I  say,  Alice  !" 

"  Yes?" 

"  Don't  forget.  Tell  Miss  Almont  about  my  career, 
and — and  my  stage-name.  Good-by  ;  we  will  see  you 
soon.     I  must  run  in." 

"What  is  her  stage-name?"  asked  Annabel,  with 
eminent  curiosity. 

"  Beatrice  Amorino." 

"  Really  ?" 

"  Really.     And  do  you  mind  going  in  a  'bus  ?" 

"  I  adore  it." 

They  walked  swiftly  down  the  Corso. 

"Come,  get  in  ;  this  is  the  one:  Porta  Garibaldi.  It 
is  such  a  jolly  drive.  You  go  through  all  of  the  worst 
streets  in  Milan  before   getting  near   to  his   house. 


Stage-Struck.  237 

Then  you  have  to  get  out  and  walk.  You  will  surely 
like  the  master.  He  is  such  a  kind  man.  Ah  !  we  are 
off.  Now  I  will  point  out  everything  of  interest  as  we 
go  along.  There  isn't  much  to  see,  but  strangers  al- 
ways want  to  see  it.  Oh  !"  The  'bus  gave  a  fearful 
lurch.  "  I  think  I  can't  talk  any  more,  just  now,  there 
is  such  a  noise  going  over  these  cobblestones.  Oh  f 
Another  lurch.  "  Have  you  ever  seen  anything  like 
these  stones  ?  they  are  planted  with  the  points  up. 
Be  careful  and  never  walk  with  Louis  Quinze —  Oh  ! 
oh  !  Well,  I  give  it  up  in  despair ;  no  human  being 
could  out-talk  the  noise  of  this  'bus.  I  am  dumb  until 
we  reach  the  maestro's.  But  did  you  ever  know  the 
equal  of  the  Milan  cobblestones  ?  and  so  many  of 
them  to  go  over  !  You  see,  he  lives  in  the  *  rhubarbs 
of  the  town,*  and  you  have  to  ride;  no  one  could  walk. 
Oh  !  oh  !     I  must  stop  ;  we  shall  soon  be  there." 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

Trivulsi  belonged  to  a  class  of  music-teachers  of 
the  past  century,  or  perhaps  farther  back  even  than 
that,  when  Hasse  taught  the  beautiful  Faustina,  and 
Nicolo  Porpora  brought  out  Minghotti,  a  rival  song- 
stress, whose  beauty  and  talent  were  afterwards  re- 
nowned throughout  Europe.  The  early  part  of  the 
nineteenth  century  was  very  prolific  in  great  masters. 
There  were  Bassini,  in  Naples,  and  Nozzari,  the  clever 
man  who  taught  the  great  Rubini  after  his  father's 
preliminary  lessons  ;  the  old  Garcia,  in  Paris  ;  Romani, 
in  Florence  ;  and  Vanucini,  who  instructed  the  con- 
temporaries of  Pasta  and  Grisi.  Still  later  come 
Pauline  Viardot  and  Manuel  Garcia,  Madame 
Leonard,  Madame  de  la  Grange,  Madame  Marchesi, 
and  Mrs.  Kennett. 

Of  the  later  teachers  of  the  old  school  was  Trivulsi. 
He  came  of  a  musical  family.  His  father  was  one  of 
the  finest  amateurs  of  the  day  ;  his  aunt  was  Grassini, 
the  first  female  contralto  to  sing  on  the  stage;  and 
Giula  Grisi  was  his  cousin.  Trivulsi  was  a  little 
younger  than  his  friend  Rubini,  and  his  voice  was  a 
beautiful  tenor,  although  not,  like  Rubini's,  a  pheno- 
menal one.  They  studied  with  the  same  masters;  but 
Trivulsi  learned  most  with  his  friend,  from  whom  he 
was  inseparable. 

When  quite  a  young  man  he  was  Court  singer  to 


Stage-Struck.  239 

the  Austrian  Emperor.  His  sensitiveness,  extreme 
intelligence,  gentlemanly  manners,  and  sympathetic 
person  were  no  mean  accompaniments  to  his  vocal 
talent.  One  day  he  felt  indisposed,  and  had  a  sore 
throat,  which  grew  so  alarming  in  its  symptoms  that 
a  Court  doctor  was  called  in.  The  doctor  immediately 
performed  an  experimental  operation,  with  the  de- 
plorable result  that  the  chords  in  the  throat  con- 
tracted, paralysis  set  in,  and  the  young  artist  became 
an  incurable  invalid. 

Poor  Trivulsi,  after  a  terrible  illness,  retired  with 
his  wife  to  an  obscure  provincial  town,  where  he  lived 
for  more  than  thirty  years,  unknown  and  forgotten. 
His  sad  story  had  passed  from  the  minds  of  all  his 
contemporaries.  He  heard  of  their  brilliant  careers, 
but  nothing  came  to  interrupt  the  monotony  of  his 
existence  ;  and  he  spent  his  time  studying  with  un- 
wearied diligence.  At  length  he  could  stand  it  no 
longer,  and  returned  to  Milan.  He  began  to  give 
lessons;  and  so  good-hearted  was  he  that  poor  stu- 
dents profited  by  his  instructions,  without  his  taking 
any  remuneration  from  them.  The  old  cripple  out- 
ride of  Porta  Garibaldi  was  soon  recognized  as  one 
of  the  first  masters  of  Italian  singing  in  the  world. 
Many  had  thought  him  dead  ;  and  when  it  burst 
upon  Milan  that  Rubini's  old  friend  was  still  alive 
and  willing  to  teach,  his  rooms  were  thronged  from 
far  and  wide. 

He  had  never  been  able  to  walk  or  even  to  sit  up  ; 
and  he  was  a  strange  picture  as  he  lay  upon  his  little 
iron  bed.  His  head  was  unnaturally  large,  and  being 
very  bald  made  it  seem  still  larger.     His  face  was  a 


240  Stage-Struck. 

vast  area  of  pallid  flesh,  with  a  hundred  lines  like 
cobwebs  running  diagonally  across  it.  His  eyes  were 
large,  luminous,  and  sad  ;  and  his  mouth  of  a  peculiar 
shape,  with  a  curve  in  the  middle,  whilst  the  inferior 
lip  stretched  away  and  dropped  at  the  corners.  His 
features  were  quite  flat,  as  though  they  had  been  dis- 
torted by  illness.  His  head  was  one-sided,  and  his 
neck  scarcely  noticeable.  He  wore  a  blouse  of  dark 
twill,  spotlessly  neat,  and  hanging  like  a  sack  from  a 
yoked  or  gathered  throat-band.  It  was  like  an  old- 
fashioned  prison-garment,  such  as  Marguerite  wears 
in  "  Faust ;"  and  the  sleeves,  very  wide  and  short,  fell 
away  from  a  shapely  arm,  which  was  strangely  mus- 
cular, white  and  blue-veined,  like  that  of  a  young 
Hercules.  His  wrists  were  tiny,  and  his  hands  long 
and  slender.  They  were  kept  with  perfect  care,  and 
looked  fifty  years  younger  than  his  face.  He  was 
never  without  a  snuff-box,  the  gift  of  his  royal  pro- 
tector. For  years  he  had  not  used  it;  but  now  that  it 
no  longer  brought  back  his  youth  with  too  terrible 
vividness,  it  was  his  constant  companion.  His  pillow 
was  dark ;  his  bed  dark  ;  and  there  were  yellowish 
sheets  on  week-days,  and  white  ones  on  Sundays. 
Fifty  little  birds,  ^^ passarelle"  hopped  and  chirped 
around  him;  and  although  their  real  home  was  in  the 
corner,  they  spent  most  of  their  time  perched  on  his 
bed.  They  were  on  the  best  of  terms  with  a  huge 
black  cat  which  sat  on  his  pillow  and  looked  like  a 
familiar  spirit.  Above  his  head,  on  the  wall,  jung  a 
portrait  of  one  of  his  ancestors,  Cardinal  Trivulsi — a 
chef-d'oeuvre. 

The  maestro  was  susceptible  to  atmospheric  influ- 


Stage-Struck.  241 

ence;  and  when  the  wind  blew  strong  and  cold  from 
the  Alpine  range,  he  shivered  and  trembled  so  that 
the  whole  bed  shook,  and  the  birds  flew  screaming 
into  the  corner.  Any  one  entering  at  that  moment 
would  have  found  it  hard  not  to  believe  himself  in 
some  magician's  cave,  with  a  wizard  exorcising  the 
beasts  of  the  field  and  the  fowls  of  the  air.  The  hand 
holding  the  snuff-box  went  ceaselessly  up  and  down 
on  the  coverlid,  whilst  the  other  vainly  endeavored  to 
hold  on  to  the  side  of  the  iron  bed  ;  his  teeth  chat- 
tered, his  lips  quivered,  his  eyeballs  protruded  from 
their  sockets,  his  head  went  backwards  and  forwards 
like  a  pendulum,  and  his  whole  body  shook  convul- 
sively. So  nervous  was  he,  that  the  sight  of  strangers 
usually  produced  the  same  effect ;  and  yet  the  im- 
pression produced  by  this  quaint  being,  after  the  first 
shock  of  surprise  was  over,  was  almost  a  pleasing 
one.  There  was  something  so  kind  and  so  sympa- 
thetic in  his  glance,  that  there  was  a  positive  mag- 
netism in  it.  The  soul  within  him  lit  up  the  weird 
form,  until  it  inspired  confidence  and  invited  affec- 
tion. Although  his  voice  was  weak  and  quavering, 
he  talked  with  wonderful  charm.  He  had  a  memory 
which  went  back  to  Rubini's  ddbut^  and  the  scoldings 
his  father  gave  him  because  at  ten  he  was  not  an  ac- 
complished tenor. 

Trivulsi  thus  found  himself,  at  eighty,  loved  by  all, 
and  adored  in  his  home.  His  charities  were  bound- 
less, and  many  3.panafone  at  Christmas-time  found  its 
way  with  beef  and  wine  to  a  poorer  neighbor. 

The  scene  outside  the  Porta  Garibaldi  was  rather 
lively  :  many  small  booths  or  stalls  where  wares  were 


242  Stage-Strtick. 

sold — a  market,  in  fact,  of  nearly  every  conceivable 
thing.  There  were  peasants  screaming,  housekeepers 
haggling  for  cheaper  prices,  cats  creeping  about,  lean 
dogs  yelping  and  sniffing  the  air,  contadine  passing 
with  full  baskets  ;  washerwomen,  beggars,  flower- 
girls,  soldiers,  policemen,  students,  a  gay  waiting- 
maid  or  two,  goggle-eyed  professors,  a  sister  of  char- 
ity, a  Trappist,  two  rats  of  chimney-sweeps,  a  blind 
fiddler,  and  innumerable  others  —  all  picturesque, 
happy,  and  wearing  the  look  of  content  which  is 
known  in  the  superlative  only  to  the  Italian.  It  is 
enough  for  him  to  exist,  to  be  satisfied  with  his  lot, 
and  to  find  the  world  very  pleasant  to  live  in.  Just 
before  the  door  of  the  maestro  was  an  organ-grinder. 
A  relative  of  Darwin's  was  skipping  back  and  forth 
with  a  small  cockade  hat,  and  into  this  hat  the  animal 
grimly  invited  Mrs.  Almont  to  place  her  extra  sous. 
She  smiled,  and  as  grimly  placed  them,  and  said  to 
Annabel,  "I  always  help  those  who  have  money  in 
the  bank." 

Alice  went  up  three  steps  at  a  time. 

"Another  piano  nobilef  said  Mrs.  Almont,  laugh- 
ing. 

"Another  piano  nobile^''  she  rejoined  ;  "and  here  we 
are. 

There  was  a  sound  of  '•'■  Morir  si  pura  e  Bella''  com- 
ing in  a  tenor  voice  from  the  room.  The  words  were 
Italian,  but  the  accent  was  Hibernian. 

Mrs.  Almont  raised  her  brows.  "  He  must  be — 
yes,  he  is  Irish." 

He  was  ;  his  name  was  McBuffin.  And  the  maestro 
was  trying  to  get  his  voice  out  of  his  throat.    He  was 


Stage-Struck,  243 

rather  afraid  of  his  peculiar  accent,  however  ;  but  ne 
had  already  made  such  progress  that  anything  might 
be  hoped  for. 

They  stopped  for  a  moment  on  a  little  balcony, 
while  Alice  went  to  the  room  to  tell  Signor  Trivulsi 
that  she  had  brought  a  stranger.  The  maestro  lived 
in  an  old  stone  house  which  overlooked  the  entire 
city.  Annabel  was  taking  in  the  glorious  view  with 
delight,  when  the  door  opened  with  a  little  tinkle,  and 
Alice  put  her  head  through  with  the  words,  "  Come 
in;  the  maestro  will  be  pleased  to  see  you." 

As  they  entered,  a  strange  sight  met  their  eyes. 
The  room  was  an  immense  apartment,  which  was 
divided  in  half  by  a  screen  stretching  from  the  wall  to 
the  centre  of  the  floor.  To  the  right  was  a  little  iron 
bed,  on  which  reposed  a  half-reclining  figure.  It  was 
the  maestro.  As  usual  his  head  was  in  constant  mo- 
tion; his  eyes  alone  spoke,  for  so  nervous  was  he  at  the 
sight  of  a  stranger  that  no  sound  issued  from  his  lips, 
which  only  tremulously  quivered  with  a  smile,  but 
such  a  beautiful  smile  that  the  light  alone  in  the  dark 
eyes  was  worthy  to  keep  it  company. 

He  looked  a  thousand  welcomes  to  the  young  stran- 
ger, and  extended  one  hand  to  Annabel,  while  the 
other  held  a  gold  snuff-box.  He  kept  trembling  so 
much  that  Annabel  was  half  alarmed  as  she  ap- 
proached the  couch.  A  dozen  tame  ground-sparrows 
flew  around  her,  twittering  a  strange  welcome. 

A  grave  lady  came  from  an  inner  room.  She  made 
an  old-fashioned  curtsey  as  Alice  presented  the  sig- 
nora.  Then  a  stout,  dumpy  black-eyed  woman 
emerged  from  the  other  side  of  the  screen,  where  she 


244  Stage-Struck, 

had  left  her  stove  and  htr  pot  au  feu^  to  be  introduced 
to  the  stranger.  This  was  Marietta — maid,  daughter, 
everything,  and  the  stay  of  the  house.  Every  one 
shook  hands  with  Marietta.  The  next  persons  to  be 
introduced  were  /  Sigfzori  McBuffin  and  Federico,  the 
maestro's  nephew.  Federico  had  rare  talent,  and  ac- 
companied all  the  pupils  on  the  piano. 

Annabel  drew  still  nearer  to  the  old  man's  couch. 
She  took  his  hand  in  her  own — that  palsied  palm 
which  trembled  so  violently  at  first — and  she  smiled  a 
look  of  rare  sympathy  from  out  of  her  lovely  eyes. 
From  the  first  she  and  the  maestro  understood  each 
other. 

**  Don't  try  to  speak,"  she  said  in  her  pretty  broken 
Italian.  "  I  will  sit  here  beside  you.  The  lesson  must 
go  on  just  the  same.  You  must  not  make  strangers 
of  us,  or  I  shall  run  away." 

There  was  a  soothing  influence  in  her  very  pres- 
ence, in  the  glance  of  her  soft  eyes,  and  in  the  hesita- 
ting sweetness  of  her  young  voice.  It  had  such  an 
effect  on  the  maestro.  His  trembling  grew  less  vio- 
lent, the  imprisoned  hand  became  more  and  more 
tranquil,  and  finally  he  could  quite  command  his  voice 
to  speak. 

"  You  are  welcome,  beautiful  child.  How  now  do 
you  call  yourself  ?" 

"  Annabel." 

"Annabel.  Ah  !  that  is  pretty;  but  Annabellina  is 
prettier.     I  will  call  you  that." 

Federico  struck  a  few  chords.  Annabel  started,  and 
begged  the  tenor  to  continue  his  lesson,  if  she  did  not 
disturb  him  by  being  there.      McBuffin  assured  her 


St  age-Struck,  24$ 

of  the  contrary.  In  fact,  the  maestro  liked  his  pupils 
to  acquire  the  habit  of  singing  before  strangers. 

The  lesson  went  on;  the  young  man  attempted  a 
high  note,  then  stopped,  or  rather  the  note  stopped. 

"  How  strange  !"  he  faltered;  "  I  can  never  get  that 
tone." 

"  Poor  young  man  !  How  can  you  expect  to  get  it, 
taking  it  in  that  fashion  ?  You  all  want  to  sing  Rubi- 
ni's  phenomenal  notes — not  as  he  did,  but  as  it  would 
please  you  to  do.  A  tenor  nowadays  must  have  four 
kinds  of  voice  to  be  satisfied  with  himself.  Rubini's 
notes  were  all  head." 

"  Don't  tell  me  that  !"  amazedly. 

"Yes,  caro  Buffino.  His  was  a  head-voice,  after  the 
middle  C.  It  is  a  gross  error  to  think  that  he  always 
sang  chest-notes;  on  the  contrary,  he  rarely  sang  a 
chest-note  higher  than  A  flat,  and  then  they  were  so 
blended  with  the  head-voice  that  only  consummate 
musicians  could  tell  the  difference." 

"  Well,  I  will  take  a  head-note." 

He  commenced.  *' Yaw — p — "  with  a  full  yell  was 
the  result. 

The  maestro  trembled. 

"  Buffino  mio^  thy  intention  was  good" — and  he 
softly  tapped  his  snuff-box — "  but  thy  note  was  bad. 
A  falsetto  is  not  a  head-note.  Rubini  was  incapable 
of  perpetrating  a  falsetto.  You  young  tenors  all 
make  the  same  mistake.  Sing — ah —  Patience.  Open 
thy  mouth,  and  sing  it  so." 

The  master  dropped  his  snuff-box.  His  eyes  shone 
with  a  faint  light;  he  opened  his  mouth,  and  sang  the 
note  as  it  should  have  been.    The  voice,  though  worn, 


246  Stage-Struck. 

was  still  true,  and  of  the  exact  quality  of  tone  that 
McBuffin  had  tried  to  produce.  It  was  a  sweet,  even 
sound,  like  a  feeble  note  from  a  lute;  perfect,  but 
fleeting. 

McBuffin  tried. 

"Again,"  said  the  maestro;  "again.  Ah!  that  is 
more  like.  Again.  No.  Well,  we  will  rest  for  to-day. 
To-morrow  we  will  take  up  the  same  thing,  and  you 
must  be  patient.     The  same  thing  until  it  is  perfect." 

"To-morrow,  maestro?  Humph!  How  many 
times  have  you  said,  *  We  will  take  it  up  to-morrow '  ?" 

"  Ah  !  many  times.  I  have  said  it  to  myself  for 
sixty  years.     But  to  you  not  long,  have  I  ?" 

"  Yes.  Not  long  to  you,  perhaps;  but  it  seems  long 
to  me.     You  must  think  me  an  ass." 

"Oh!  Buffinow/^." 

The  maestro's  eyes  twinkled  diabolically,  and  he 
daintily  tapped  the  cover  of  his  snuff-bok. 

"  Yes,  an  ass  !  or  nearly  one.  I  will  tell  you  what 
it  is.  I  begin  to  think  that  it  is  all  right;  the  fault 
is  not  in  me,  but  in  my  organ.  I  am  not  less  ambi- 
tious, but  I  think  that  to  sing  those  notes  as  Rubini 
did,  one  needs  but  one  simple  thing — Rubini's  voice." 

"  Caro  mio  Buffino,  thou  art  nearly  right;  but,  like 
all  young  singers,  until  thou  hast  a  decided  way  of 
thine  own,  it  will  always  be  better  to  follow  in  the 
steps  of  the  great  masters.  Only  know  how  Rubini 
took  his  notes,  and  try  to  take  them  the  same  way. 
He  was  my  friend;  he  taught  me.  I  was  not  Rubini, 
and  yet  I  often  sang  exactly  as  he  did." 

"  I  wish  I  could  have  heard  him.  It  would  not  take 
me  long  to  imitate  him." 


Stage-Struck.  247 

"Ah!  imitate  him.  A  useful  thing  to  know  how  to 
do,  but  not  always  to  depend  upon  it." 

Annabel  begged  the  master  to  tell  them  some- 
thing about  his  great  contemporaries.  McBuffin  had 
nearly  finished  his  lesson,  and  Trivulsi,  wishing  to 
place  him  in  other  than  the  humiliating  position  of 
an  impatient  student,  asked  him  to  sing  an  air  from 
some  grand  opera  which  would  show  his  voice  at  his 
best. 

McBuffin,  nothing  loth,  selected  "  Di  Quella  Pira," 
which  he  really  sang  admirably.  In  this,  as  in  the 
previous  air,  his  accent  was  most  pronounced;  the  «'s, 
the  ^'s,  and  in  fact  every  letter,  every  vowel,  as  it  came 
out  of  his  mouth,  doomed  the  hope  that  he  would  ever 
be  taken  for  a  born  Italian. 

The  maestro  shivered.  "It  is  a  beautiful  voice,"  he 
said,  "a  fine  voice;  but  as  yet  it  has  too  much  of  the 
Irish  temperament." 

"As  Buffin  gave  out  the  last  high  C,  it  caused  quite 
an  excitement:  the  little  birds  flew  shrieking  to  their 
ledge;  the  windows  rattled;  the  cat  crept  away  towards 
the  terrace;  the  chords  of  the  piano  vibrated;  the  bell 
at  the  door  felt  the  shock;  Marietta  came  smiling  from 
her  J>ot  au  feUy  3ind  the  signora  adjusted  her  lace  cap. 
Everything  seemed  in  commotion. 

"A  strong  voice,"  added  the  master,  "and  a  diffi- 
cult one  to  modulate.  Robusto  si  ma  tenore — ?"  He 
turned  to  his  pupil.     "  Now,  Rubini — " 

"  Was  his  voice  as  strong  as  mine  ?" 

"  It — it  was  not  quite  the  same  thing,  caro  fanciullo 
mio;  besides,  he  knew  how  to  modulate  it.  You  will, 
one  of  these  days,  I  hope;  but — patience,  patience." 


248  Stage-Struck. 

"  I  suppose  where  he  beat  me  was  in  the  accent  ?" 

"Yes;  it  was  naturally  softer.  He  was  an  Italian, 
you  know."     This  half-apologetically. 

"  Do  tell  us  about  him,"  interrupted  Annabel. 

The  maestro  seemed  not  unwilling,  and  com- 
menced. 

"  What  can  one  say?  He  was  Rubini.  He  had  the 
loveliest  voice  in  the  world.  He  studied  hard,  very 
hard,  at  first.  He  was  the  kindest  man  I  ever  knew. 
He  has  taught  me  many  a  time  when  he  was  so  tired 
that  he  could  scarcely  stand.  After  a  long  fatiguing 
opera,  he  would  say,  'Now,  listen.  You  heard  me 
sing  so  and  so?' 

" '  Yes.' 

"'Well,  I  did  that  to-night,  but  it  was  a  tour  de 
force;  you  must  always  sing  that  phrase  this  way.' 
He  would  show  me,  and  we  would  go  to  supper. 
Rubini  always  ate  enormously,  but  drank  little.  He 
never  gave  his  free  tickets  but  to  poor  people.  One 
night,  after  the  scene  in  the  Sonnambula,  his  servant 
was  crying  bitterly.  'What  on  earth  is  the  matter?' 
he  asked.  '  I  am  sorry  that  this  woman  treated  you 
so  badly,'  the  servant  said.  '  How  could  any  one  so 
treat  a  man  who  sings  like  an  angel?'  'Idiot!' said 
Rubini.  '  So  you  thought  it  all  true  ? '  The  man  had 
been  waiting  in  the  wings,  and  had  heard  him  sing 
for  the  first  time.  '  Yes,'  he  said  piteously,  '  I  know 
it  is  true.  There  were  tears  in  your  voice.  Women 
are  all  faithless,  but  I — I ' — slapping  his  breast — 'will 
be  QVQY  Jidele.     I  am  sorry  for  you,  davero.' 

"  Rubini  could  not  persuade  him  that  he  did  the 
same  thing  every  night.     He  sent  him  to  his   room, 


St  age-Struck.  249 

and  gave  him  money.  The  next  performance  all  of 
his  relatives  and  friends  had  free  tickets.  '  I  like  their 
praise,'  said  Rubini.     'It  comes  from  the  heart.'  " 

The  maestro  wore  a  wondrous  expression  when 
speaking.  He  no  longer  seemed  to  suffer,  and  one 
soon  became  accustomed  to  his  peculiar  movements. 

Annabel  was  already  accepted  as  a  prime  favorite. 
Mrs.  Almont  was  unusually  amiable,  and  seemed  to 
understand  the  simplicity  of  this  artistic  house.  Mari- 
etta brought  some  sweet  wine  and  cakes,  also  some 
coffee  for  those  who  preferred  it.  She  gave  the 
maestro  a  bowl  filled  with  a  sort  of  pap,  made  of  milk, 
water,  or  mistra  of  syrup  of  anise-seed;  it  was 
slightly  warmed,  and  diffused  a  delicious  odor.  Anna- 
bel handed  it  to  him,  and,  slightly  raising  himself,  he 
drank  with  eagerness. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  signora  had  brought  an 
album  filled  with  old  faded  pictures  and  photographs 
taken  from  daguerreotypes  or  old  portraits. 

Annabel  was  interested,  and  Alice,  too,  for  she  had 
never  before  seen  the  album.  There  were  pictures 
of  Grassini,  the  two  Grisis,  Rubini,  Lablache,  Trivulsi, 
the  Signora  Bellini,  Madame  Pasta,  and  Madame 
Barilli,  Patti's  mother.  Federico  was  the  one  to  ex- 
plain. 

"  The  first  is  Grassini — " 

"  My  aunt,"  interrupted  the  maestro.  "  She  was 
the  first  Italian  woman  to  sing  contralto.  Before  her 
time,  that  part  was  always  taken  by  young  boys.  She 
was  a  beautiful  woman,  with  such  a  voice." 

Annabel  looked  at  the  Grassini.  Indeed,  she  was 
beautiful.     A  small  shaped  head,  with  waving  masses 


250  Stage-Struck, 

of  dark  hair,  full  gray  e3^es,  shoulders  and  a  bust 
which  Helen  of  Troy  might  have  envied,  a  slim  waist, 
and  a  pair  of  hands  lying  in  her  lap  which  might 
have  served  as  models  for  Murillo's  madonnas. 

"  Why,  she  is  like  Grisi,"  Annabel  said,  seeming 
surprised. 

'■'■  Giulia  was  like  her.  Zia  Grassini  listened  to  her 
one  day,  and  told  her  that  she  would  be  the  greatest 
of  all  the  family.  She  was  a  child  then;  I  remem- 
ber it  well.  She  studied  faithfully,  and  at  the  end  of 
ten  years  she  was  engaged  in  the  chorus — " 

"What!"  There  was  a  general  scream  from 
McBuffin,  Alice,  and  Annabel  in  one  breath.  "What! 
Grisi  a  chorus-singer  ?     Never!" 

"Oh  yes,  cara  mia  Annabellina,"  he  said,  looking 
kindly  at  her;  "  in  those  days  one  studied  years,  and 
began  at  the  bottom  of  the  ladder.  She  was  very 
proud,  too,  to  get  a  chance  to  begin  that  way.  She 
studied  the  same  scales  for  six  years,  and  the  Zia 
always  said,  'Giulia  mia^  study  slowly,  carefully; 
round  your  voice,  and  some  day  you  will  have  my 
place; '  but  she  did  not  stop  in  the  chorus  long,  and 
you  know  the  rest." 

"  Yes,  well;  and  Madame  Barilli  ?" 

"Ah,  the  Barilli.  Such  a  woman!  I  do  not  know 
how  she  ever  learned  anything.  She  was  beautiful, 
gay  as  a  linnet,  and  wishing  to  do  nothing  but  prome- 
nade. She  sang  like  an  angel.  She  never  had  a  sore 
throat;  her  voice  was  like  gold.  She  gave  herself  up 
to  every  sort  of  dissipation,  and  it  had  no  effect  what- 
ever on  her  voice.  The  more  reckless  she  was,  the 
sweeter  she  sang." 


Stage-Struck.  251 

Annabel  spoke  up.  "Why,  Adelina  Patti  is  just 
like  her,  and  looks  exactly  like  her.  Any  one  who 
knew  the  mother  would  notice  the  relationship  at  a 
glance." 

The  maestro  had  never  heard  Patti;  so  Annabel  told 
him  all  about  her.  They  continued  their  talk  upon 
artists  and  singers.  The  pictures  were  further  dis- 
cussed; and  when  Mrs.  Almont  insisted  upon  their 
taking  their  leave,  Alice  had  even  forgotten  her  lesson. 
But  not  so  the  maestro;  he  insisted  upon  her  doing 
her  exercises  at  least. 

He  also  heard  Annabel's  voice,  and,  to  her  amaze- 
ment, he  made  her  sing  the  same  exercises  that  she  had 
learned  with  Garcia.     She  expressed  her  surprise. 

"  Dear  child,  it  is  not  strange.  The  Italian  school 
is  the  Italian  school  the  world  over.  We  have  all  been 
taught  in  that  same  way.  You  have  been  started 
right.  It  is  a  grand  beginning  for  a  young  artist. 
We  shall  make  great  progress,  working  together." 

Arrangements  were  made  to  commence  on  the  mor- 
row. The  afternoon  had  worn  away  with  an  indescrib- 
able charm;  whither  had  the  hours  flown?  Annabel 
had  her  hour  named  for  the  next  day.  She  kissed  the 
old  master's  hand  with  real  emotion,  and,  after  an 
affectionate  greeting,  the  three  students  wended  their 
way  from  his  house.  The  sun  was  setting  behind  the 
Lombard  hills  as  they  passed  out  from  the  Porta 
Garibaldi.     Annabel  was  enchanted  with  the  master. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

The  next  day,  the  Almonts  went  to  the  American 
boarding-house  in  Corso  Vittorio  Emmanuele.  They 
had  two  large  rooms,  wine  and  everything  found,  for 
the  modest  sum  of  fifty  dollars,  or  two  hundred  and 
fifty  francs,  a  month  for  both.  This  was  not  ruinous. 
The  maestro's  lessons  cost  ninety  francs  a  month;  they 
had  an  ex-countess  to  teach  them  Italian  at  two  francs 
fifty  centimes  an  hour;  an  excellent  acting  teacher, 
Ronconi,  who  was  also  very  reasonable.  And  before 
twenty-four  hours  had  passed,  their  lives  were  as  or- 
dered as  if  a  previous  routine  of  ten  years  were  staring 
them  in  the  face. 

The  house  was  kept  by  a  certain  good-natured  little 
woman  named  Mamina,  or  the  little  mother.  She 
filled  it  from  cellar  to  attic  with  students.  There  were 
at  one  time  no  less  than  forty,  mostly  Americans,  with 
some  few  English.  The  rest  varied  from  the  exiled 
Polish  prince  to  the  haughty  Spaniard,  the  mild,  spec- 
tacled blond  Teuton,  with  one  gentleman  from  Bra- 
zil who,  in  America,  would  have  had  a  hard  time  not 
to  pass  for  a  full-blooded  negro.  He  was  a  tenor, 
named  Kuffee. 

Imagine  that  boarding-house!  There  were  ten 
pianos,  all  going  at  one  time,  and  during  every  hour 
in  the  day.  There  were  no  less  than  fifteen  pupils 
singing  at  one  time  at  the  pitch  of  their  voices,  in  dif- 


Stage-Struck,  253 

ferent  keys — some  tenor,  some  soprano,  some  oasso 
cantanto,  and  contralto  of  every  shade,  mezzo,  soprano, 
soprani  sfogatt,  and  Heaven  knows  what.  We  have 
omitted  the  baritones:  there  were  seven  in  the  house, 
each  with  a  different  kind  of  voice. 

Some  were  singing  scales,  others  staccati;  others  were 
trilling;  one  was  yelling  on  **  Aida,"  another  rupturing 
a  blood-vessel  over  "  Oh  mio  Fernando,''  another 
underground  with  qui  odegno,  another  tripping  on  the 
"  Shadow-song  of  Dinorah,"  another  doing  Galletti's 
great  scene  in  "  Dolores,"  until  she  had  cramps;  two 
had  paired  off  by  some  unique  chance  to  study  the 
duetto  of  the  **  Huguenots,"  each  singing  it  in  his  own 
way,  well  out  of  tune,  time,  and  temper.  But  each 
one  knew  more  about  music  than  the  other.  His  or 
her  master  taught  such  a  scene  in  such  a  way,  and  in 
such  a  way  was  it  to  be  sung. 

At  noon  the  yelling  ceased.  It  was  the  hour  for  the 
meat-breakfast;  and  a  very  good  breakfast  it  was. 
There  was  plenty  of  good-humor,  and  no  hand-to- 
hand  conflicts  about  teachers;  there  were  musical  dis- 
cussions, of  course,  but  mild  and  reasonable.  The 
students  were  usually  too  hungry  at  noon  to  discuss 
music  fully;  but  at  night,  at  the  six-o'clock  dinner,  the 
scene  was  rather  lively. 

Withal  there  was  an  enchanting  spirit  of  bonne  cama- 
raderie amongst  the  Americans  which  was  delightful 
to  see. 

Amongst  so  many  young  people  so  far  away  from 
home,  all  studying  the  divine  art,  hoping  against 
hope,  working  like  slaves  night  and  day,  always 
patient,  always  cheerful,  and  always  good-tempered. 


254  Stage-Struck. 

ready  to  help  each  other,  and  making  the  best  of 
every  ill  in  life,  there  were  some  petty  spirits,  but  few 
and  far  between.  Mrs.  Almont  soon  became  acquaint- 
ed with  everybody.  There  was  a  Miss  Genevieve 
Raynal,  a  tall,  handsome  blonde  with  a  fine  voice, 
lovely  face,  and  lovelier  manner.  Gen,  as  she  was 
called,  was  a  star  amongst  the  Americans,  and  the 
Italians  called  her  the  Lady  Scatolung.  She  was  con- 
sidered une  boite  a  surprise. 

There  were  Mrs.  Manners  and  her  daughter,  who 
was  called  the  Paolina.  She  was  a  pupil  of  San  Gia- 
como,  and  was  the  particular  pride  of  the  students. 
She  had  "made"  dozens  of  theatres,  always  singing 
with  the  greatest  artists,  and  her  execution  was 
something  marvellous.  The  palm  was  yielded  with- 
out jealousy  to  "the  Paolina." 

There  were  a  Miss  Belrin  from  Cincinnati,  a  Miss 
Hatton  from  Cleveland,  and  a  number  of  others — all 
handsome,  with  beautiful  sweet  voices,  each  studying 
with  a  different  master,  each  expecting  to  become  a 
Patti  or  a  Nilsson,  each  thinking  in  her  heart  that  the 
other  was  wrong. 

Johnny  Chaston  was  a  "  star"  amongst  the  tenors. 
He  had  already  his  stage-name  of  Cherubini,  called 
Cheru  for  short.  There  were  two  charming  singers 
from  the  West;  one  Annabel's  old  friend  Len,  who  had 
now  been  three  years  in  Italy,  and  the  other  named 
Phippo.  They  were  theatrically  known  as  Urbini  and 
Felseni.  McBuffin  we  have  already  heard;  and  the 
others  were  Marios,  more  or  less.  Frank  Fay  was  a 
fine  basso  from  Boston,  at  present  suffering  from  an 
extinction   de  voix,  consequently  not  aiding   the   bassi 


Stage-Struck,  255 

in  the  general  daily  studies.  Georges  Jean  Halden 
was  a  charming,  talented  blond  baritone  from  Maine. 
He  was  singer,  pianist,  composer,  and  had  just  left 
Germany,  where  he  had  imbibed  a  very  thorough 
knowledge,  as  he  called  it,  of  "  the  Sour-Krout  system 
of  song."  He  did  not  like  it,  and  he  had  left  in  con- 
sequence. 

Annabel  soon  became  a  great  favorite  with  all. 
The  days  passed  in  the  general  routine  of  study  and 
various  masters.  In  Milan,  where  all  the  world  sang 
it  was  easy  to  learn.  Music  was  an  absorption,  and 
any  one  in  the  city,  or  certainly  in  the  boarding-house, 
who  did  not  study  was  looked  upon  as  a  mark  for 
pity.  ''What!  not  studying  for  the  stage!"  one  would 
say.     "  What  on  earth  else  is  he  doing  in  Milan  ?" 

The  scenes  in  the  streets  were  not  less  remarkable. 
There  was  a  steady  stream  of  students  pouring  along 
from  noon  till  night.  The  magnificent  Galleria  Vit- 
torio  Emmanuele  was  thronged  between  the  hours  of 
nine  and  twelve,  and  from  that  until  midnight.  The 
world  seemed  upside  down,  and  in  one  grand  musical 
panic. 

Usually  the  first  thing  each  American  finds,  upon 
coming  to  Milan,  is  that  his  previous  education  has 
been  all  at  fault;  his  voice  is  wrongly  posed:  in 
fact,  nine  chances  to  one,  he  discovers  that  his  voice 
is  not  even  what  he  had  thought  it  in  America — it  is 
not  the  same  voice  at  all,  posed  or  otherwise.  In 
consequence,  one  sees  ex-bassos  tearing  through  the 
Galleria  with  a  score  of  "  Dinorah"  or  "Trovatore" 
under  their  arms,  preparing  for  a  debut  as  "  Hoel"  or 
the    "Count    di    Luna."     "Azucenas"     will    do    the 


256  Stage-  Struck. 

"Favorita"  henceforth;  "Aminas"  gleefully  stop  old 
friends  to  announce  that  it  is  decided  that  in  the 
future  they  are  to  be  ''Valentines,"  "  Lucrezias,"  and 
so  on.  A  good  "  Fides"  will  deliberately  stretch  her 
voice  up  to  "  Lenora,"  because  her  waist  is  slim  and 
she  will  look  better  in  that  part;  besides,  she  "must 
get  a  chance  to  debut.  The  '  Prophet '  is  no  longer 
done  in  Italy,  and  her  voice  always  has  been  more  of 
a  soprano  dramatic  than  a  high  contralto." 

"  Almavivas"  will  lay  up  a  day  in  order  to  pay  visits 
to  the  colony,  to  announce  that  their  debut,  as  "  Rha- 
dames"  or  "  Raoul,"  is  immediately  forthcoming.  The 
last  theatre  was  to  do  "Elvino;"  but,  of  course,  with 
study,  great  masters,  increase  of  lung-power  and 
practice,  their  voices  have  at  last  developed  into  genu- 
ine/^«^r  robustos.  Addio  for  ever  to  the  miserable  hack- 
neyed rdles  of  the  tenor  di grazia!  So  on  until  the  end 
of  the  chapter.  There  is  no  city  in  the  world  so  well 
adapted  as  Milan  to  be  a  musical  centre;  there  are 
always  theatres  open  with  operas,  and  at  wondrously 
cheap  prices.  The  great  Opera-house  of  La  Scala  is 
seldom  opened,  except  for  the  carnival  season,  begin- 
ning the  26th  of  December  and  lasting  until  the  end 
of  Lent.  It  sometimes  is  opened  for  special  occasions; 
and  this  season,  on  account  of  the  visit  of  the  German 
Emperor,  a  series  of  operatic  representations  had 
been  promised. 

The  usual  habit*  of  the  students  was  to  club  together 
to  go  to  the  theatre,  opera,  or  concert;  also,  when 
there  was  no  opera,  to  spend  the  evenings  in  the 
Galleria,  where  they  would  sit  out  at  cafds^  and  talk 
as  only  American  boys  and  girls  can. 


Stage-Struck.  257 

Annabel  had  been  but  a  fortnight  in  Milan,  when 
Isabelle  Stanley  arrived  with  her  mother  and  a  French 
maid.  They  were  looked  upon  as  giving  themselves 
airs,  because  they  took  an  apartment  facing  the  Corse 
and  did  not  go  to  the  boarding-house. 

Isabelle  and  her  mamma  were  Miss  Raynal's  oldest 
friends,  and  they  were  not  long  in  becoming  intimate 
with  all  the  rest  of  the  inmates  of  Mamina's  house. 
Isabelle  joined  all  of  the  theatre-parties,  dined  at  the 
Pensione  Americana,  and  spent  her  time,  in  fact, 
exactly  as  did  the  others. 

There  were  so  many  young  gentlemen  in  the  house 
that  beaux  were  never  lacking;  and  every  night  there 
was  a  sally  forth  to  the  Galleria  to  gossip,  eat  creams, 
drink  chocolate,  and  talk  over  the  masters. 

The  young  gentlemen  took  turns  to  "  treat."  It 
must  not  be  imagined  for  a  moment  that  any  one  was 
rich  enough  to  pay  for  all;  but  this  fact  was,  however, 
gallantly  suppressed.  The  one  who  hinted  at  such  a 
thing  was  indeed  courageous. 

The  affair  was  managed  in  this  wise.  In  the  morn- 
ing one  man  went  to  each  of  his  neighbors  to  explain 
and  collect  a  share  of  the  proposed  expense.  When 
all  of  the  students  had  paid  over  their  money — for  no 
credit  was  given — then  the  ladies  were  approached. 
Dear  Mrs.  Manners  was  almost  always  the  one  to  hint 
to  the  young  "Marguerites"  and  "  Lucias"  that  it  was 
quite  possible  that  there  would  be  a  little  promenade 
that  evening  to  the  Galleria.  The  invitation  would 
come  in  due  form,  of  course;  would  they  not  like  to 
join  the  company  ?  The  next  thing  to  decide  upon 
was  what  each   one  would  take.       On  no  occasion 


258  Stage-Struck . 

could  the  consummation  be  changed.  Coffee,  with 
cream  (panera),  cost  thirty  centimes,  a  cup  of  black 
coffee  twenty-five,  and  chocolate,  with  cream,  fifty 
centimes;  cakes  were  very  cheap;  panatone^  a  sort  of 
sweet  spiced  bread,  was  usually  thrown  in  with  rolls 
and  butter,  and  it  was  very  good  with  the  chocolate. 

About  II  A.M.  rose-tinted  billets  commenced  flying 
about  the  Pensione.     Annabel's  first  was  as  follows: 

"Signor  Cherubini's  compliments  to  Mrs.  and  Miss 
Almont,  and  can  he  prevail  upon  them  to  join  the 
party  for  the  Galleria  for  this  evening  ?  At  ten  sharp 
the  ladies  and  gentlemen  will  meet  in  the  public  din- 
ing-room" (there  was  no  parlor),  "where  Signor 
Gherubini  will  have  the  honor  of  receiving  them.  He 
trusts  that  the  ladies  are  both  well  and  that  'the 
VOICE '  is  all  right.  Sig.  Cherubini  counts  upon  pass- 
ing a  delightful  evening  with  his  guests. 

*'  15,  Corso  Vitt.  Emmanuele,  Milan,  Sept.  27th,  1875." 

Annabel  was  delighted.  Of  course  they  would  go! 
The  messenger  was  waiting  for  the  answer.  She 
wrote  hastily,  and  upon  some  paper  which  she  knew 
would  strike  jealousy  to  Cheru's  heart;  it  was  so 
much  more  "  stylish"  than  his. 

"Mrs.  and  Miss  Almont  present  their  distinguished 
compliments  to  Signor  Cherubini,  and  accept  with 
pleasure  his  kind  invitation  for  the  evening,  the  27th. 
The  voice  is  in  excellent  condition,  and  both  Mrs.  and 
Miss  Almont  anticipate  a  delightful  soiree. 

"  Milan,  Sept.  27th,  11  a.m." 


Stage-Struck,  259 

The  messenger  was  no  sooner  despatched  than 
there  came  a  rap  on  the  door. 

"Come  in;  avantir 

*'  It's  only  me,  dears — Mrs.  Manners.  A  proposito^  you 
have  just  received  an  invitation  for  this  evening.  You 
have  accepted,  of  course.  I  must  say,  it  is  kind  of 
those  gentlemen.  The  ladies  could  go  alone,  but  it 
would  not  behalf  so  nice.  Of  course  we  pay  our  way, 
but  it  is  done  in  such  a  delicate  fashion.  No  one  but 
an  American  would  ever  have  thought  of  such  a  plan. 
It's  Cheru's  picnic  to-night;  and — and," — abruptly — 
"what  will  you  take  ?" 

"Take!"  said  Annabel,  aghast.  "Why,  I  will  de- 
cide when  I  get  there." 

Mrs.  Manners,  in  turn,  looked  amazed. 

"  Oh  no!  you  cannot  do  that;  you  must  think  before- 
hand, because  each  thing  costs  just  so  much.  Shall 
it  be  coffee,  chocolate,  or  an  ice  ?  The  money  is  all 
counted  and  collected;  and  if  you  take  anything  dif- 
ferent from  what  you  first  decided  upon,  you  would 
upset  the  whole  thing.  There  miglit  not  be  money 
enough  to  go  round." 

"But  suppose  lam  hungry?  I  might  have  given 
you  some  money  for  ices,  and  then  had  a  beefsteak 
or  a  hot  supper  instead." 

"  Oh,  you  would  never  do  that.  Besides,  one  ought 
to  know  in  the  morning  what  one  will  like  at  night. 
Now,  for  instance,  I  say  *  Chocolate  and  panera  '  to  my- 
self so  many  times  during  the  day  that  I  can  almost 
taste  it.  I  am  so  used  to  the  idea  that  I  shouldn't 
even  dream  of  changing  in  the  evening;  chocolate  and 
panera  it  shall  be." 


26o  Stage-Struck. 

"By  the  way,  I  think  I  will  take  that.  Is  it 
good  ?" 

"My  dear  Annabel,  it  is  delicious;  good  isn't  the 
name  for  it.     And  your  mother — " 

"I?  Well,  if  I  must  decide,"  said  Mrs.  Almont. 
"No,  I  cannot;  but  I  promise  not  to  take  a  complete 
supper.  Stop.  I  will  give  you  a  little  extra  money; 
then  if  I  change  my  mind — " 

Mrs.  Manners  looked  severe.  "I  can  accept,  of 
course,  but  it  spoils  the  symmetry  of  the  affair.  You 
can  sup,  if  you  like;  but  it  would  make  the  others 
look  and  feel  rather  cheap,  you  eating  quail  on  toast, 
they  drinking — slops." 

"  You  are  right"— hastily.  "  I— I—  Well,  I  will  take 
coffee.     How  much  does  that  cost?" 

"It  will  cost  you  pretty  dear,  mamma,"  Annabel 
interrupted;  "a  night's  rest.  You  know  you  never 
can  sleep  after  drinking  coffee." 

"  Well,  chocolate,  then" — in  desperation.  "  No,  that 
is  too  rich  for  me.  I  can  never  drink  chocolate  at 
night;  my  digestion — " 

"Tea,"  suggests  Mrs.  Manners.  "They  have  per- 
fectly elegant  tea  in  Italy.  I  have  often  taken  tea — 
at  a  pinch." 

"What!  dry?" 

"Oh  no.  You  understand:  when  I  did  not  know 
what  else  to  have.  They  have  English  breakfast,  and 
very  good,  at  Cafe  Biffi." 

"  Oh!  we  go  there,  do  we  ?" 

Mrs.  Almont  did  not  know  one  cafeironx  the  other, 
and  this  observation  was  made  really  to  gain  time  for 
her  decision. 


Stage-Stmck.  261 

"  I  never  drink  tea,  or  rarely.  It  is  so  bad  for  the 
complexion.     I — what  else  can  one  take  ?" 

"Ices,  sorbets,  lemonade,  sherry — " 

"Yes,  that's  it.     I  will  take  a  sherry  cobbler." 

"Now,  ma,  you  can't  change.     It  is  quite  settled." 

Mrs.  Almont  sighed,  and  handed  Mrs.  Manners 
some  silver. 

"And  \hQ pourboire — who  furnishes  that?" 

"Usually  the  gentleman  who  treats  the  company. 
But  I  insist  that  it  is  not  fair;  we  ought  all  to  pay  our 
part.  That,  however,  we  settle  the  next  day.  If  the 
waiter  is  very  civil,  he  gets  more;  if  unobliging,  less, 
of  course." 

Mrs.  Manners  took  the  money  and  put  it  in  her 
purse.  She  then  got  up,  and,  as  she  was  leaving, 
stopped  for  a  moment  with  her  hand  on  the  door- 
knob. 

"  You  know  Lara  Belvin  is  engaged  ?" 

"  Engaged!  to  whom  ?" 

"  Oh,  not  to  be  married,  but  to  sing  *  La  Sonnam- 
bula  *  at  Varesi.     She  has  signed  her  scrittura'* 

"When  does  she  go  away  ?" 

"Day  after  to-morrow,  or  to-morrow.  I  hope  she 
will  make  a  success  of  it.     Her  voice  is  very  sweet." 

"Yes;  if  she  only  had  Paolina's  agility." 

Mrs.  Almont  said  this  last  with  a  knowing  little 
look.     Mrs.  Manners  reddened  with  pride. 

"You  are  too  kind;  but  of  course,  although  I  am 
her  mother,  I  am  forced  to  acknowledge  that  few — 
few  great  stars  can  execute  like  the  Paolina;  and  if 
there  is  one  opera  she  sings  better  than  another,  that 
opera  is  *  La  Sonnambula.'     Ah,  this  gossip  is  delight- 


262  Stage-Struck. 

ful,  my  dears,  but  I  must  really  go.  I  shall  see  you 
at  Colazione  non  e  verro;  and  if  not,  we  meet  this  even- 
ing. Thanks;  and — oh  !"  coming  back  again,  "you 
understand  about  this  evening.  Not  a  word  to  any 
one  about  the — the  arrangement,"  tapping  her  purse. 
"  Cheru  would  die  with  mortification  were  even  a  hint 
of  this  to  get  about.  We  all  know  in  a  general  way, 
of  course;  but  it  is  much  nicer  doing  things  up  on  the 
strict  Q.  T." 

Mrs.  Manners  received  a  double  assurance  of  abso- 
lute secrecy.     She  came  back  yet  again. 

"  Now  say  it  over,  to  be  sure  that  you  have  not 
forgotten." 

"Annabel  takes  chocolate  with,  panera'' — glibly. 

"  Mrs.  Almont  ?" 

"  I — I — why,  I  have  forgotten.  What  on  earth  had 
I  decided  upon  ?" 

Mrs.  Manners  smiled  amiably.  "  Naturally,  I  used 
to  forget  at  first.  Now  think."  She  put  her  finger  to 
her  lip. 

"Ah!  sherry  cobbler;  and  I  must  say  that  I  hate 
those  things — " 

"Mamma!" 

"  Oh,  I  won't  change;  I  am  too  much  of  a  lady  for 
that.     Dear  Mrs.  Manners,  you  may  count  upon  me." 

«  T »» 

"  No,  we  won't  forget.    Au  revoir  until  this  evening." 
The  door  finally  closed. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Lara  Belvini  was  an  engaged  artist,  and  the 
deference  paid  her  at  breakfast  was  considerable. 
She  had  only  twenty- four  hours  in  which  to  "get  up" 
her  part;  so  all  the  students  determined  to  help  her. 
Many  abandoned  their  lessons  for  that  day.  The 
tables  were  cleared  in  the  dining-room;  the  piano  was 
dragged  forth,  and  Halden  voted  himself  accompanist, 
or  inaestro  concertatore,  for  the  rehearsal.  Every  stu- 
dent "kindly  consented  to  take  a  rdle  for  this  occasion 
only." 

Len  Urbini  was  "  Elvino."  He  had  already  made 
a  furore  in  the  part,  and  had  sung  it  sixty  consecu- 
tive times.  The  Paolina  kindly  consented,  for  this 
occasion  only,  to  do  "  Lisa."  Frank  Fay  was  the 
Alessio;  Isabelle,  the  mother  Theresa;  and  Sig. 
Marchmont,  a  young  Englishman  responding  to  the 
homely  name  of  Walker,  "kindly  consented  "  to  do 
his  great  part  of  the  Count  Rodolpho.  Felsini  gra- 
ciously condescended  to  the  small  rdle  of  the  "no- 
tario,"  and  all  joined  in  the  chorus. 

They  commenced  with  Amina's  scene  in  the  first 
act. 

Lara  was  more  frightened  to  sing  before  this  array 
of  critics  and  dilettanti  than  she  ever  had  been  when 
she  appeared  in  the  theatre.  She  came  forward 
almost   trembling,  one  arm    outstretched,  the   other 


264  Stage-Struck, 

quietly  posed  on  her  bosom,  as  all  Aminas  have  done 
since  time  immemorial. 

Mrs.  Manners  cried  out,  "  For  Heaven's  sake,  do  not 
make  that  conventional  entrance  !  Excuse  my  inter- 
rupting, but — " 

"  Mrs.  Manners  is  quite  right,"  said  Elvino.  "  You 
will  see  a  hundred  'Aminas,*  and  they  will  all  come 
bounding  upon  the  stage  in  the  same  way:  one  arm 
out,  the  other  on  the  bosom,  tearing  at  it  as  if  there 
was  a  concealed  cancer." 

Lara  plaintively  observed,  "  I  must  put  my  arms 
somewhere." 

"  Now,  Lara,  don't  be  pettish,"  continued  Elvino. 
"  Try  again.  We  are  your  friends,  and  want  you  to 
score  a  big  success." 

General  chorus:  " Urbini  is  right." 

Lara  went  out  of  the  room.  Halden  gave  the  chord, 
and  slyly  struck  the  note  of  attack,  to  give  her  cour- 
age. Her  second  entrance  was  rather  worse  than  the 
first.  She  was  all  arms,  all  body,  all  something  quite 
out  of  place. 

Annabel  looked  up  brightly.  "  May  I  suggest  one 
little  thing  ?" 

Lara  said  eagerly,  "Yes." 

"We  are  all  friends,  are  we  not  ?" 

Chorus:  "  Of  course."     "Well,  I  should  think  so  !" 

"  Amina  was  amongst  her  friends,  was  she  not  ?" 

"  Naturally." 

"Well,  it  is  very  simple.  You,  Lara,  go  out;  come 
in,  see  us  all  here,  and  make  the  usual  exclamation 
you  would  naturally  make  on  seeing  your  friends.  It 
gives    you     pleasure;    you     smile    and    say,      *  Care 


Stage-Struck,  265 

conipagne,  '  the  moment  you  see  them.  You  must 
remember  you  are  Amina;  but  you  must  think  of  the 
sentiment  of  the  piece  as  well  as  the  notes." 

"  She's  right,  by  Jove  !"  interrupts  Count  Rodol- 
pho. 

"  Now  try,  Lara;  you  have  the  idea.  You  are  going 
to  be  married.  You,  Lara,  are  surrounded  by  friends; 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  public.  Amina  is  Lara,  or 
vice  versa,  for  the  moment.  Instead  of  *  Good-morn- 
ing, Gen,'  you  rush  in  and  say,  *  Care  ' — the  words, 
whatever  they  are:  I  do  not  know  them." 

Annabel  sat  down,  quite  flushed.  She  would  see 
what  effect  the  Garcia  method  had. 

The  scene  was  recommenced.  The  chorus  kindly 
consented  to,  as  usual,  stand  about  in  wooden  groups, 
and  the  final  word,  "  Viva  /"  was  sung  in  a  superb 
manner. 

As  the  last  notes  rang  out,  Lara  appeared  at  the 
door.  She  seemed  unconscious  until  she  heard  the 
voices  and  the  cry  of  "  Viva/"  She  came  cheerily 
forward,  seized  Genevieve's  hand,  and  said  *  Care 
com/agne"  so  naturally  that  the  house  came  down. 
Theresa  ran  up,  and  before  she  knew  where  she  was, 
Amina  was  singing,  naively  embracing  her  mother 
and  casting  joyous  glances  upon  all  the  assembled 
friends. 

**  Brava  !  brava!  That's  it.  No  one  could  be  more 
natural  or  charming.  If  you  act  that  way  at  the 
dibut,  cara  mia^  success  is  sure."  Elvino  spoke 
heartily. 

There  was  a  general  cry  of  "  Brava  !"     Lara  con 
tinued  her  scene,  and  everything  went  smoothly. 


266  Stage-Struck, 

"  It's  all  right,  now  that  I  know  I  am  somebody 
else,  and  that  somebody  else  was  a  human  being, 
with  a  heart.     Now,  Rodolpho  enters.     I  stand  here." 

The  stage-manager  called,  "  Rodolpho  !  Rodolpho  !" 

"Here  !    Must  I  sing  my  aria  ?     No.     Cut  that." 

"  Not  at  all,  Marchmont.  We  want  to  hear  you 
sing  it." 

"  What  are  you  all  thinking  of  ?  Not  at  all — not 
now,  at  least.  First  comes  the  duetto.  No,  first 
Alessio." 

There  were  screams  for  Alessio. 

Here,  in  scena^  the  stage-director  spoke  out.  "  Give 
Amina  her  cues  for  the  recitative;  then  comes  the 
*  notario.'  The  contract  is  signed;  and  then — then 
the  count  arrives.  If  I  am  to  be  stage-manager" 
(Carlo  Lansini  had  already  constituted  himself 
director  of  the  scenario)^  "  things  must  be  done  in 
order.  The  contract  is  signed.  Elvino  gives  Amina 
his  podere — all  he  has,  in  fact — and  Amina  gives 
him—" 

"  A  letter  for  Elvino." 

Urbini  hastily  stretched  out  his  hand  and  opened 
the  paper.  It  was  a  pencil-sketch — a  caricature  of 
Lara.  She  was  sobbing,  and  pointing  to  an  immense 
heart  pierced  with  an  arrow.  This  was  presented 
entire,  on  a  platter,  to  Elvino  by  the  villagers. 
Underneath  were  the  words  "  //  cor  soltanto.^* 

Elvino  started.  Who  had  done  it  ?  Impossible  to 
go  on  with  the  rehearsal.  Finally,  Isabelle  con- 
fessed to  being  the  culprit. 

No  sooner  was  this  little  entr'acte  over  than  the 
opera  continued.     The    two  stars   were  in  splendid 


Stage-Struck.  267 

voice;  the  duetto^  ^^  Frendi  TAnely*  vtent  to  perfection. 
It  was  applauded  to  the  echo.  There  was  some  de^ 
bate  about  taking  the  final  top  note  together,  in  the 
second  duo.     Should  it  be  a  B  flat  or  a  high  C  ?'* 

"  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Manners,  conclusively,  "  that 
that  point  may  be  decided  with  the  other  tenor.  If 
he  is  hoarse,  you  are  sacrificed — it  is  a  B  flat.  If  you 
are  hoarse,  he  is  sacrificed — no  high  C.  I  have  known 
that  important  point  decided  only  in  the  dressing- 
room,  with  the  curtain  up  on  act  first,  the  night  of  the 
first  performance,  and  the  audience  wildly  anxious. 
It  happened — well,  if  you  must  know  my  authority — 
it  happened  to  the  Paolina  the  night  of  her  great 
d3ut  in  Palermo.     We  were  excited." 

"  I  don't  wonder."  Lara  turned  pale.  Could  such 
a  calamity  happen  ?  No;  fate  would  be  kinder.  The' 
tenor  would  not  be  hoarse.  Her  high  C  was  one  of 
her  best  notes,  and  most  tenors  would  die  rather  than 
miss  a  chance  of  yelling  on  one.  She  would  trust  to 
luck  and  the  nature  of  the  tenor. 

Marchmont  caused  a  furore  with  his  aria.  He  was 
recalled  again  and  again;  he  bowed,  but  refused  to 
repeat  his  solo. 

The  phantom  chorus  was  sung  to  such  perfection 
that  it  was  re-demanded.  Here  there  was  no  refusal. 
It  was  executed  really  as  only  artists  do  sing  when 
they  sing  for  pleasure.  They  sang  it  a  second  time 
with  even  greater  delight.  Halden  thanked  his 
artists.     "  My  satisfaction  is  indeed  great,"  said  he. 

There  was  a  violent  knocking  at  the  door.  Giulia, 
a  pretty  maid,  came  in. 

"  Mamina  has  colic,  and  the  cook  has  left.    Mamina 


268  Stage-Struck, 

is  in  bed,  and  Giuseppe  has  gone  for  a  doctor.  She 
says — " 

"Does  the  singing  disturb  her?" 

"  Oh  no,"  continued  the  maid,  smiling;  "  she  enjoys 
it,  and  her  door  is  open.  I  came  to  tell  you  that  she 
knows  Miss  Lara  will  have  a  great  success;  that  you 
may  stay  in  the  dining-room  as  long  as  you  like,  and 
will  you  excuse  a  poor  dinner  for  to-day  ?" 

"  Of  course  we  will;  will  we  not  ?" 

General  cries:  "Yes,  yes." 

"  Poor  Mamina  !  Not  very  ill,  I  hope.?"  said  Mrs. 
Manners. 

"  Oh,  we  trust  not;  but  she  suffers  the  tortures  of  the 
damned."  Do  not  start.  This  is  a  common  expres- 
sion with  the  dulcet  Italian.  "  She  takes  spiced  wine, 
and  has  hot  flannels  on  her." 

Mrs.  Manners  looked  interested.  "If  she  gets 
worse,  Giulia" — this  in  a  contented  tone — "let  us 
know.     I  myself  will  nurse  her." 

Cheru  interrupted: 

"  Yes,  indeed.  Mrs.  Manners  is  such  a  good  nurse, 
that  it  is  quite  worth  while  being  ill  just  to  have  her 
take  care  of  one."  Cheru  spoke  with  feeling.  "For 
once  in  my  life  sore  throat  was  welcome." 

"  Nonsense,  Cheru  !  Stop  giving  taffy,  and  let  us 
continue  the  rehearsal." 

The  stage-manager  hated  interruptions. 

Amina  entered  in  the  scene  for  tlie  beginning  of  act 
second,  as  the  first  is  usually  made  into  two  acts. 
Everything  went  splendidly  until  they  arrived  at  the 
finale.  There  was  some  laughter  over  the  improvised 
bed  for  the  Count.     An  old  horse-hair  sofa,  top-  or 


Stage-Struck,  269 

head  -  heavy,  sufficed  for  this  important  property. 
When  poor  Amina  sang  "  Elvino,  Elvino,"  and  threw 
herself  upon  the  couch,  there  was  a  general  shriek,  for 
Amina,  sofa,  and  all  came  to  grief.  Happily  no  bones 
were  broken,  and  Lara  at  last  placed  her  head  in  the 
middle  of  the  "concern,"  in  order  to  finish  her  scene 
properly. 

The  finale,  ^^D'un  pensiero,**  would  not  go.  Elvino 
threw  Amina  from  him  so  many  times  that  her  legs 
were  black  and  blue  from  constantly  falling  on 
Mamina's  stone  floor.  Lara  nearly  lost  patience. 
She  had  already  lost  her  breath. 

"Come  now,"  said  Lansini,  "this  time  it  must  go 
right ;  this  is  the  twelfth.  Attention.  We  do  this 
scene  entire  from  the  beginning.  You  must  com- 
mence *  Ove  son.'  Just  imagine  that  life  or  death 
depends  upon  doing  it  right,  and  it  will  be  a  sure 
thing.  Now,  Lara,  you  are  singing  for  your  bread 
and  butter — " 

"I  wish  I  had  some."     Interruption  from  Isabelle. 

Chorus  :  "We  are  all  nearly  starved." 

"  Never  mind.  Do  this  finale  right,  and  the  rest  of 
the  opera  goes  by  itself.  I  remember  when  I  sang  in 
Reggio  Emilia  Giulini's  home,  on  the  anniversary  of 
his  birthday — " 

"  Poor  Carlo  !  and  was  hissed  like  I  don't  know 
what,"  said  Lara,  who  could  not  help  laughing  at  the 
recollection. 

"Yes,  hissed  stoutly  ;  and  I  did  not  like  it.  I  then 
appreciated  what  it  was  not  to  have  rehearsed  just 
once  more  ;  and  I  do  not  care  to  have  any  of  my 
compatriots  treated  as  I  was.     So,  when  I  can  point 


270  Stage-Striick. 

out  the  weak  points,  I  will.  This  finale  goes  very 
badly." 

"  Lara  could  not  be  hissed,"  said  an  enthusiast. 

"There  is  only  one  Reggio  Emilia,  Carlo,  and  you 
struck  that.  I  remember  they  called  '  Giulini,  Giulini! ' 
You  said  he  was  dead,  and  you  would  be,  too,  if  you 
didn't  clear  out.  A  nice  man,  that  Giulini,"  Urbini 
continued.  "When  his  father  died,  the  rich  tenor 
sent  a  pound  towards  his  funeral,  remarking  that  *he 
couldn't  help  bury  all  the  dead  bakers  in  Italy.'  Still 
I  will  admit  that  this — " 

"  Well,  let's  go  on,"  said  Carlo. 

'■^'' Uun pensiero'  might  be  vastly  improved." 

Urbini  went  up  to  the  prima  donna.  "Come,  little 
woman,  don't  look  mortified.  We  are  all  here  to  help, 
to  play  *  supers,'  or  anything  you  like  ;  but  our  Ameri- 
can P.  D.  must  whitewash  all  of  those  Italians,  the 
first  night  of  *La  Sonnambula,' at  Varesi,  October 
ist,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1875.     I  have  spoken — " 

Lara  sprang  into  scena  "  Ove  sotiy  chi  siete  vol'' 
Then  she  went  on  like  a  little  major,  singing  for 
dear  life;  and  the  result  was  a  finale  which  crowned 
the  efforts  of  the  day,  and  won  genuine  compliments 
from  all  of  her  unwearied  assistants.  How  proud  she 
was!  The  rehearsal  was  declared  such  a  success  that 
it  was  decided  to  do  nothing  more  that  afternoon. 
After  dinner  Urbini  would  go  over  the  last  act  with 
her,  and  at  ten  they  would  meet  for  Signor  Cheru- 
bini's  evening  party. 

The  men  started  off  in  high  glee  to  drink  their 
vermouth  before  dining.  The  ladies  separated,  and 
Mrs.  Manners  went  to  poor  Mamina. 


Stage-Struck.  27 1 

Going  down  the  Corso,  "  The  Embryos"  (to  use  a 
popular  American  expression  for  artists  in  the  chrysa- 
lis) remarked  upon  the  probable  success  of  "  La  Son- 
nambula." 

Cherubini  spoke. 

"Belvini  is  a  perfect  little  jewel.  Her  voice  is 
sweet,  sympathetic,  and  she  will  look  like  a  pink  as 
Amina.  It's  a  pity,  Len,  you  are  not  to  be  her  Elvino." 
Cherubini's  regret  seemed  not  very  sincere. 

"It  is  a  pity,"  Len  answered  coolly.  "She  is  sure 
to  have  some  ass  of  a  tenor  who  will  *  take  the  stage ' 
when  she  wants  it,  who  will  snatch  her  high  notes 
out  of  her  mouth  before  she  has  them  herself,  and 
who,  ten  to  one,  will  smell  so  of  garlic  that  she  will 
be  ready  to  faint.  If  his  hair-oil  doesn't  drip  off  into 
her  face  while  she  is  embracing  him,  it  will  be  a 
caution." 

"  They  have  lovely  voices,  these  Italians ;  but  as 
artists  are  usually  recruited  up  from  the  surplus  cob- 
blers, butchers,  waiters,  and  grape-stampers  in  fair 
Italia,  there  is  a  heap  of  shop  to  a  very  small  quan- 
tity of  soap,  and — no  water  to  speak  of.  Ugh  !" — 
shuddering — "singing  on  the  stag-e  in  Italy  is  not 
all  that  it  is  cracked  up  to  be."  Cheru  sighed  as  he 
spoke. 

"  Nonsense.  You  are  jealous  because  you  have  no 
immediate  scrittura  in  view.  This  is  the  first  time  I 
have  heard  anything  from  you  about  the  stage  in 
Italy.  Glean  or  dirty,  the  stage  is  the  same  in  every 
country.  The  thing  is  to  keep  one's  self  clean  while 
on  it."  Halden  thought  the  question  settled  by  his 
answer. 


2/2  Stage-Struck. 

"Humph  !  a  difficult  thing  to  do.  No  conundrums, 
Halden  ;  I  am  not  up  to  them.  My  intelligence  is  at 
a  very  low  ebb,  and  I  am  as  thirsty  as  a  stranded 
pike.  The  last  top  note  of  \h2X  finale  settled  my  hash. 
Let  us  seek  the  sustaining,  invigorating  vermouth.  I 
will  add  a  bitter  to  mine,  just  to  keep  me  in  coun- 
tenance.    Have  a  cigar  ?" 

Urbini  was  reckless.  He  concluded  his  words  by 
drawing  forth  a  very  rusty-looking  case  and  offering 
it  to  Cherubini. 

"  N-no.  When  I  smoke,  I  smoke  a  particular  kind 
of  weed." 

"  Lord,  Cheru  !  don't  give  yourself  airs.  You  can- 
not go  through  life  on  the  sole  reputation  of  having 
once  been  the  first  prize  for  beauty  at  Barnum's  baby- 
show  in  the  year  One,  although  we  all  know  about  *a 
joy  for  ever.'  Still  about  the  weed.  Life  is  no  joke. 
This  cigar  cost — " 

"Ten  centimes." 

"Oh  no!     Guess." 

"Twenty;  twenty  five." 

Len  laughed.  "  Do  you  think  I  have  struck  a  gold- 
mine or  a  carnival  season  at  La  Fenice  ?  Indeed  not. 
These  cigars  for  the  price  are  not  bad.  I  have  even 
seen  Italian  noblemen  smoking  them." 

"  How  much  ?  Do  not  keep  us  in  suspense,"  said 
Halden. 

"Well,  these  cost  me — nothing.  They  are  from  a 
lot  of  samples  sent  around  to  the  boarding-houses, 
where  there  are  none  but  d^cave's.  The  retail  price  is 
two  francs  a  hundred." 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

The  boarding-house  in  the  Corso  Vitt.  Emmanuele 
was  in  the  rear  of  a  double  court,  in  the  same  build- 
ing as  the  Teatro  Milanese. 

They  were  playing  Fontana's  delicious  farce,  "La 
Statua  del  Sor  Incioda,"  and  the  whole  of  Milan  came 
to  laugh  at  the  amusing  piece. 

Just  as  Cheru's  "  picnic"  came  down  the  stairs,  they 
met  a  number  of  the  Milanese  "  jeunesse  stage-dorey" 
who  had  come  to  exhibit  themselves  outside.  Amongst 
them  was  a  gentleman,  Count  Pertusini.  He  had  been 
introduced  to  Isabelle  in  Paris  as  "  the  handsomest 
man  of  all  Italy."  He  stopped  to  say  "  Good-evening," 
and  begged  to  present  his  young  friend,  the  Duke 
Prospero  of  St.  Antonio,  a  handsome  man,  with  infi- 
nite sympathy,  of  manner,  beautiful  estates,  and  model 
farms.  There  was  only  a  moment  in  which  to  say  a 
little  buona  sera.  The  Count  begged  permission  to 
call;  and  it  being  granted,  he  stood  with  uplifted  hat 
until  the  ladies  had  passed  under  the  entrance  of  the 
theatre. 

Annabel  looked  at  the  young  men  with  some  curi- 
osity. They  were  a  dozen  in  all,  each  one  seemingly 
more  attractive  than  the  other,  each  one  having  an 
insouciant  grace  of  manner  which  belongs  only  to  the 
cultivated  Italian. 

Mrs.  Almont  could  not  sufficiently  express  her  ad- 


274  Stage-Struck. 

miration  and  satisfaction.  "Thank  Heaven,  as  we 
must  live  for  some  time  in  Milan,"  she  said,  "that  we 
shall  see  only  good-looking  people!  It  is  half  the 
battle.  I  must  say  that  I  do  not  dislike  homely  faces; 
but  I  like  them  better  when  they  are  handsome." 

"  What  would  you  have  done,  mamma,  had  I  been 
ugly?" 

"  Had  you  been  ugly!  Well,  I  am  not  a  Spartan 
mother;  but  there  is  one  of  their  distinguishing  cus- 
toms which  I  always  admired." 

"  What  are  you  two  talking  about  ?"  Genevieve 
Raynal  was  curious. 

"Oh,  nothing!  Only  a  little  scheme  of  mamma's, 
which  would  have  taken  place  had  I  been  different  in 
form  and  color.  Think  of  it:  I  might  have  been 
drowned  at  birth!" 

"  The  canal  is  not  far  off,"  suggested  Cheru.  "We 
cannot  well  spare  you;  but  to  oblige  mamma,  we 
might  even  now  rectify  her  little  failing  of — how  many 
years  ago  did  you  say?" 

"Sweet  sixteen.  I  shall  never  be  much  older." 
Annabel  laughed  as  she  spoke. 

She  did  not,  however,  look  even  that.  She  was  tall 
— almost  too  tall;  broad-shouldered,  with  a  head 
which  none  could  outrival  for  beauty.  Her  eyes  were 
truly  marvellous,  a  gray-blue,  with  black  lashes,  mak- 
ing a  hedge  of  shadow  quite  over  the  clear  iris — 
luminous,  soft,  seductive  eyes,  which  even  the  child 
passing  in  the  street  tried  a  second  time  to  look  into. 
Her  forehead  was  low;  her  hair  a  golden  brown.  Her 
brows  were  arched  and  round,  a  little  darker  than  her 
hair.     Her  skin  was  pale,  tinted  sometimes  with  a 


St  age-Struck.  275 

shade  of  rose.  Her  profile  was  perfectly  Greek;  the 
head  viewed  from  the  crown  to  the  chin  being  quite 
egg-shaped.  It  was  the  most  beautiful,  most  perfect 
head  imaginable.  No  wonder  the  maestro  called  her 
"  Annabellina." 

The  young  people  were  gayly  chatting,  when  sud- 
denly Cheru,  who  was  with  Isabelle,  stopped.  No  one 
noticed  the  movement  but  his  companion. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"Good  Heavens!  I  have  forgotten  my  purse.  I 
must  go  back." 

"Go  back?  Never!  It  brings  bad  luck.  Here, 
take  mine.    It  is  all  the  same.    Say  nothing  about  it." 

"No,  no;  I  will  go  back." 

"  Nonsense!     Airs  with  me?     Take  it." 

"  Well,  if  you  insist.  How  much  money  is  there  in 
it?" 

"  Happy  thought!  But  I  guess  there  is  enough. 
The  change  from  a  louis — something  like  seventeen 
francs  left." 

He  counted  on  his  fingers.  "Oceans!"  said  he  con- 
tentedly, slipping  the  purse  into  his  pocket. 

As  usual,  once  in  the  Galleria,  they  gave  full  fling  to 
their  spirits.  Such  loud  healthy  voices!  such  screams 
of  laughter!  Then  they  made  a  descent  upon  Cafe 
Bifii,  seizing  upon  the  best  tables,  driving  old  habitues 
out  of  favorite  corners,  appropriating  chairs,  arrang- 
ing themselves  to  their  perfect  convenience,  and,  in 
fact,  taking  absolute  possession,  as  they  usually  did, 
of  the  entire  place. 

Signor  Cherubini  was  lordly.  When  he  tried  to  give 
himself  airs,  no  one  in   the  colony  succeeded   better. 


276  Stage-Struck, 

His  politeness  was  overwhelming.  He  urged  this 
thing  and  that  upon  his  guests  with  the  recklessness 
of  a  millionaire.  In  no  case,  however,  was  the  order 
of  things  changed.  Several  were  invited  to  sup,  but 
they  held  firm  to  their  pious  fraud. 

"  You  are  sure,  quite  sure,"  he  asked,  "  that  you 
would  not  like  a  hot  supper?  Roast  chicken,  a  quail 
on  toast — anything  that  you  can  think  of.  Pray  or- 
der. It  is  quite  impossible  for  me  to  know  what  is 
your  taste.  What  !  chocolate  with  panera  only  !  Well, 
if  you  insist,  of  course.     Waiter — ahem — ahem — " 

Then  the  orders  were  given.  How  perfectly  loyal 
those  students  were,  to  be  sure  ! 

Annabel  whispered  to  her  mother,  "  Just  think  of 
the  excitement  had  any  one  taken  him  at  his  word — 
*a  hot  supper '!" 

Mrs.  Almont  raised  her  eyebrows,  looked  at  Cheru, 
but  said  nothing.  She  even  remembered  to  call  for  a 
"  sherry  cobbler."  The  effort  was  intense,  as  she  was 
not  one  of  those  women  who  lend  themselves  with 
facility  to  any  trifle  of  this  sort.  On  the  contrary,  she 
was  hard  to  manage;  but  since  her  arrival  in  Milan 
her  character  seemed  completely  changed.  She  was 
pliable,  yielding,  interested  in  little  things,  and  really 
made  herself  generally  agreeable. 

Mrs.  Stanley  was  quite  like  Isabelle.  Frank,  simple, 
one  of  the  girls,  in  fact.  The  highest  possible  Compli- 
ment had  been  paid  both  ladies  by  the  gentlemen. 
Their  society  was  as  much  sought  after  as  that  of  the 
younger  women;  and  "  the  boys"  fought  for  the  honor 
of  offering  an  arm  to  Mrs.  Stanley  or  Mrs.  Almont. 
Halden  this  evening  was  the  cavalier  of  the  former. 


Stage-Struck,  277 

"  Those  two  mothers  are  bricks."  Halden  had  said 
it;  and  that  settled  it. 

The  Galleria  is  a  magnificent  gallery  or  promenade 
built  to  the  right  of  the  great  Duomo.  There  is  an 
octagon  centre  or  nave,  with  dome,  lighted  by  a  cir- 
cular row  of  gas-jets.  It  is  amusing  to  watch  the 
"little  man"  or  engine  run  around  and  light  the  burn- 
ers. Crowds  come  every  night  to  see  this.  To  the 
simple  peasant  this  railroad  of  electricity  is  enigmati- 
cal, in  short,  an  infernal  machine.  He  watches  with 
eyes  starting  from  their  sockets,  then  turns  on  his  heel 
when  all  is  finished,  and  walks  away  almost  mum- 
bling ^^  Avez."  He  thinks  he  has  had  a  narrow  escape 
from  being  blown  up.  It  is  very  wonderful,  but  he 
does  not  understand  it.  His  education  has  never  gone 
beyond  whale-oil  or  the  tallow-dip. 

Signor  Cheru  and  his  guests  were  enjoying  them- 
selves thoroughly.  Conversation  was  musical,  as 
usual. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  Lara,  laughing,  "  that  he  will 
smell  of  garlic.  Most  singers  do.  But  it  is  good  for 
the  voice."     She  was  still  thinking  of  her  d^but 

"  Good!"  shrieked  Cheru.  "Any  man,  any  gentle- 
man who  respects  himself  will  not  go  on  the  stage 
smelling  of —  I  shall  not  pronounce  the  word.  It 
makes  my  mouth  taste  bad." 

"But  they  do  not  respect  themselves,"  said  Halden, 
as  he  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  cigarette.  "  Italy  is 
not  London,  or  another  country." 

/*  What  is  your  idea  of  the  stage  on  the  Continent, 
Mr.  Halden,  or  anywhere,  in  fact?"  Mrs.  Almont 
spoke  with  unusual  interest. 


278  Stage-Struck. 

"My  idea?  Why,  certainly.  I  will  tell  you.  Ig- 
norance, not  immorality,  is  the  bane  of  the  stage.  In 
Italy  and  France  ladies  and  gentlemen  do  not  go  upon 
the  stage.  They  would  choose  any  other  career  in 
preference,  because  in  many  cases  it  is  but  a  mere 
cloak  for  something  else.  This  is  especially  so  in 
these  countries  with  the  women  who  go  on  the  stage. 
Their  talent  is  ;///,  and  their  capacity  for  learning 
^  niller.'  But  they  find  the  boards  a  capital  mart  for 
tlie  display  of  their  personal  charms.  Artists,  indeed  ! 
The  word  is  degraded.  Many  can  scarcely  read  or 
write;  but  they  can  kick  with  appropriate  gesture; 
can  sing  a  vulgar  chanson  with  a  suspicion  of  double 
entente.  They  are  paid  scarcely  enough  to  buy  their 
shoes,  and  yet  no  lily-of-the-valley  toils  less  and 
spends  more.  The  daughter  of  a  butcher  or  a  con- 
cierge has  a  pretty  face.  The  mother  is  ambitious 
and  poor.  She  sees  one  of  her  neighbors'  girls  rolling 
in  her  carriage,  and  the  neighbor  herself  no  longer 
obliged  to  wake  up  for  *  Cordon^  s'il  vous  plait.' 
*  Why,*  she  asks,  '  should  not  I  and  my  daughter  be 
as  lucky?'  So,  according  to  her  ideas,  she  educates 
her  child  for  the  stage.  When  her  offspring  is 
fifteen,  she  takes  her  to  a  manager,  who  engages 
her.  Sometimes  he  falls  in  love  with  her  himself, 
sometimes  he  hopes  that  one  of  his  rich  patrons  will. 
Anyhow,  he  calculates  upon  her  pretty  face  proving 
an  attraction  to  his  theatre.  The  line  of  demarca- 
tion, you  know,  between  virtue  and  vice  is  slighter 
on  the  stage  than  off  it.  Virtue  is  its  own  reward, 
they  say;  and  there  is  no  reason  in  this  country  why 
a  woman  should  be  virtuous  upon  the  stage.      She 


Stage-Struck,  279 

never  has  the  credit  of  it,  and  is  classed  with  all  the 
others." 

Mrs.  Almont  was  amazed.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say- 
that—" 

"  Yes,  she  is  classed  with  everybody  else.  One  asks, 
*  Who  is  so  and  so  ?'  *  Oh,  she  is  an  artist,*  is  the  an- 
swer. If  you  make  any  inquiry  into  her  private  char- 
acter, eyebrows  are  raised,  and  the  only  response  is  a 
shrug  of  the  shoulders." 

"  And  how  about  the  men  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Almont. 

"  The  men  ?"  Halden  responded,  lifting  his  voice. 
"  The  wisdom  of  nations  tells  us  that  a  beggar 
on  horseback  will  ride  to  the  devil;  but  where  the 
successful  tenor  or  baritone  rides  to,  history  saith 
not." 

There  was  a  general  protest  from  the  men. 

"  Come,  come,  Halden,  let  up,"  said  Len.  "  We  are 
all  in  the  same  boat." 

"  No,  no;  let  him  go  on,"  said  Mrs.  Almont.  "You 
know  present  company  is  always  excepted.  Besides, 
I  want  to  hear  what  he  thinks  about  this  musical 
business." 

"  Well,  as  you  really  wish  to  hear,  Mrs.  Almont,  I 
don't  mind  if  I  do.  When  Nature  bestows  a  voice 
upon  a  man,  she  usually  takes  mighty  good  care  that 
he  shall  be  no  further  her  debtor.  A  more  vain,  ca- 
pricious, exacting,  pretentious,  silly,  insolent,  weak, 
vacillating,  unreasoning,  tricky,  boastful,  affected, 
finikin,  ridiculous,  mincing,  simpering,  tedious,  sick- 
ening, disagreeable,  disgusting,  ostentatious,  vaunt- 
ing, bragging,  bouncing,  crowing,  petulant,  conceited, 
swaggering,  supercilious — " 


28o  Stage-Struck. 

**  Halden,  for  Heaven's  sake,"  interrupted  Cheru, 
"hire  a  hall  and  give  us  a  rest!" 

"Thanks.  Yes;  when  I  have  finished.  This  is  my 
funeral,  and  I  am  bound  to  see  this  corpse  safe 
through.  I  am  not  exaggerating  one  bit,  Mrs.  Al- 
mont.  As  for  the  women,  they  have  but  one  theme: 
how  many  stalled  asses  they  have  mashed;  how  their 
tights  fit;  and  whether  they  are  too  pale  or  too  red. 
The  men's  conversation,  too,  is  limited  to  how  many 
ladies  of  rank  are  in  love  with  them;  how  many  billets- 
doux  they  have  from  married  women;  and  their  general 
amiability  in  doing  unsuitable  parts  just  to  oblige  the 
management.  I  don't  ask  artists,  while  on  the  stage, 
to  seize  the  stage-waits  as  an  opportunity  to  explain 
molecules  or  protoplasms;  but  I  would  sometimes  like 
to  run  across  a  human  being  behind  the  footlights 
who  has  a  mind,  a  thought,  an  idea  a  little  beyond 
or  above  them.  An  intelligent  person  suffers  more, 
morally,  while  on  the  stage — " 

"  Well,  that's  cool,  Halden.  None  of  us  has  ever 
yet  accused  you  of  having  suffered,"  Urbini  laugh- 
ingly continued.  "  The  coat  does  not  fit;  we  will 
none  of  us  wear  it.  You  are  taking  exceptions  for 
the  rule.     Americans  are  different." 

"Some  of  them.  But  you  have  prize-fools  amongst 
even  them.  For  instance,  you  remember  that  good- 
looking  coxcomb,  Vernon,  who  called  himself  Verdini 
on  the  stage  ?  Well,  we  were  in  the  same  company. 
For  one  hundred  nights  he  rushed  on,  with  the  words 
*  Cesare  hai  vifito,'  He  regularly  brought  down  the 
house.  One  night  he  came  up  to  me  behind  the 
scenes,  and   said,   'What  do   I   mean   when   I   sing, 


Stage-Striick.  281 

"  Cesar e  hai  vinto'  ?  Who's  Cesare  ?  What  had  he 
vinto'd}'  *  Well, 'I  said,  *  do  you  mean  to  say  that 
you  don't  know  the  plot  of  the  opera  you  are  singing 
in?'  *  Plot! 'he  shrieked;  'what's  that  to  me  ?  I 
learn  the  words  and  the  music,  never  miss  a  rehearsal 
and  Rubini  himself  couldn't  do  more! '  I  longed  to 
tell  him — " 

"  No  ?"     General  chorus. 

"Yes,"  said  Cheru,  scoffingly;  "you  longed  to  tell 
him,  of  course — tell  him  wrong.  Vengeance!  An- 
other baritone." 

"  No  danger  of  that,"  said  Paolina,  cheerfully. 
"  Halden  was  up  in  the  part,  lying  in  wait  for  him  to 
fall  ill." 

"  Exactly.  So  that  I  could  replace  him  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice.  I  am  always  watching  a  chance  for  a 
rise  in  my  profession.  Verdini  was  first,  I  was  but 
second,  baritone." 

Isabelle  spoke.  "  I  pity  you,  if  those  are  your  only 
chances  of  a  rise.  Verdini  enjoys  the  much-despised 
but  rude  and  vigorous  health  of  the  quadruped 
known  in  zoology  as  the  donkey." 

"  So  I  have  discovered,"  he  said  resignedly. 

It  was  past  midnight.  Mrs.  Almont  looked  like 
going.     Cheru  called  in  a  loud  voice  for  his  bill. 

"  Subito^  signorey  The  waiter  disappeared,  and 
came  back  with  a  strip  of  paper  on  a  silver  salver. 

Cheru  nonchalantly  laid  down  the  bill  and  took  out 
his  purse.  All  eyes  were  upon  him.  He  felt  the  im- 
portance of  his  position,  as  the  host  of  so  successful  a 
picnic.  With  the  air  of  an  owner  of  an  Emma  mine 
he  drew  out  his   purse.     It  would   not  open,     Hq 


282  St  age-Struck. 

pinched  the  lock,  shaking  it,  thumbing  it  this  way, 
then  that;  coaxing  first  one  side,  then  the  other.  In 
vain:  it  remained  securely  fastened.  The  polite 
waiter  eyed  him  in  amazement,  and  other  waiters 
drew  near.  People  at  other  tables  looked  interested, 
and  his  own  party  shouted  in  chorus, 

"Oh,  Cheru  can't  open  his  own  pocket-book!" 

Cheru  reddened.  His  large  black  eyes  dilated — 
those  eyes  which  had  wheedled  the  prize  for  beauty 
from  Barnum's  show  in  the  year  One;  his  silken 
dark  mustache  twitched  unconsciously  with  annoy- 
ance. It  was  useless;  he  could  not  master  the  intri- 
cacies of  the  purse.  He  explained  somewhat  inco- 
herently. 

"  How  strange!  Those  new-fangled  spring  fasten- 
ings! This  purse  is  new,  you  see.  The — the  man 
where  I  bought  it" — he  kept  swallowing  down  an  in- 
visible something — "  showed  me  how  it  opened;  but" 
^ — raising  his  voice — "  I  have  forgotten  how  it  opens! 
Here,  some  one  try.  I  give  up!"  Cheru  threw  it  on 
the  table,  and  exhaustedly  turned  away. 

The  affair  was  getting  serious.  Strangers  boldly 
came  up  to  look;  the  waiters  approached,  grinning; 
while  the  taciturn  pocket-book  was  gravely  passed 
around  from  one  to  the  other,  but  still  declined  to 
open.  Isabelle  was  suffocating  with  suppressed 
laughter.  When  it  came  to  her  turn,  the  excitement 
had  reached  its  critical  point,  and  it  was  all  that  she 
could  do  not  to  betray  herself. 

"Let  me  see."     She  took  it  in  her  hand. 

"  Why,  yours  is  just  like  that,  Isabelle,"  interrupted 
Mrs.  Stanley. 


Stage-Struck,  283 

"Do  you  think  so,  mamma?" — coolly.  There  cer- 
tainly is  a  resemblance.  Let  me  see" — turning  it 
over.  "  Here.  No.  Yes,  Vittoria.  Ah!"  She  hand- 
ed it  to  Cheru. 

Len  spoke  up.     "  Brava!     She  has  opened  it!" 

There  was  a  general  shriek. 

"  Well,  Cheru,  I  pity  the  pickpocket  who  strikes 
that  purse;  it  is  more  tricky  than  the  lock  of  a  Her- 
ring safe.  I  began  to  fear  that  we  should  have  to 
make  up  an — a  collection." 

At  the  conclusion  of  his  words  there  was  universal 
relief.  The  suspense  had  been  terrible;  but  Isabelle 
and  even  Cheru  himself  joined  in  the  fun.  The  waiter 
had  a  glorious  tip,  and  extra  cigars  were  absolutely 
thrust  upon  "  the  boys."  Cheru  and  Isabelle  kept 
their  secret  well,  and  none  of  the  "picnic"  ever  sus- 
pected the  truth  about  that  pocket-book. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

Annabel  went  daily  to  the  maestro's,  where  her 
lessons  followed  each  other  with  clock-like  precision. 
She  grew  more  and  more  enamoured  of  Milan  and  her 
studies.  The  days  flew  by  until  the  twenty-first,  the 
evening  of  the  great  court  ball  to  the  German  Emperor 
The  American  consul  had  kindly  provided  Mrs.  Stan- 
ley, Isabelle,  and  the  Almonts  with  invitations;  so 
nothing  would  do  but  they  must  go. 

Annabel  had  never  been  to  court,  and  Isabelle  had 
only  seen  the  Elysee  balls  under  the  McMahon  presi- 
dency. Milan  was  gay  with  splendidly  dressed 
strangers;  the  theatres  were  full;  the  Corso  and 
Galleria  were  crowded  from  morning  till  night  with 
an  ever-moving  mass. 

A  few  days  before  there  had  been  a  royal  procession 
throughout  the  city.  Old  Kaiser  William,  Vittorio 
Emanuele,  and  his  son  Humbert,  the  crown  prince, 
with  all  of  the  Emperor's  suite  and  the  court  officials, 
were  in  superb  equipages,  drawn  by  gayly  caparisoned 
horses. 

On  a  most  beautiful  October  day  this  splendid 
pageant  passed  through  the  principal  streets  of  Milan. 
Mrs.  Stanley  had  decorated  her  apartment.  Isabelle, 
Genevieve,  Annabel,  her  mother,  the  Manners* — in 
fact,  nearly  all  the  Americans — were  grouped  in  the 
windows.     The  sight  from  the  house  was  grand. 


Stage-Struck.  285 

As  the  royal  cortege  passed,  superb  bouquets  were 
thrown  into  the  carriages.  The  royalties  kept  con- 
stantly smiling  and  bowing.  Behind  them  came  the 
equipages  loaded  with  civic  and  military  dignitaries. 
No  two  uniforms  were  alike;  but  every  breast  was 
covered  with  glittering  medals  and  decorations,  as 
though  each  man  had  saved  his  country  at  least  a 
hundred  times. 

The  Corso  was  alive  as  in  carnival-time.  Nature 
smiled;  the  whole  city  -^diS,  en  fete  to  welcome  with 
right  royal  magnificence  two  great  and  popular  sover- 
eigns. The  night  before  the  ball  there  were  difesta  da 
notte  and  a  great  dinner  at  the  palace.  About  ten  in 
the  evening  the  royalties  came  out  on  the  balcony  to 
salute  the  people.  Thousands  upon  thousands  were 
in  the  streets,  and  the  square  in  front  of  the  Palazzo 
was  packed  with  a  dense  mass  of  human  beings.  The 
city  was  illuminated,  but  Xh^ pihe  de  resistance  was  the 
lighting  up  with  Bengal  lights  of  the  great  Gothic 
cathedral,  which,  with  its  world  of  statues,  its  mina- 
rets, and  its  frosty  tracery,  stood  out  like  some  dream 
of  Michael  Angelo;  first  in  red,  white,  and  then  the 
last  of  the  Italian  colors  ran  like  emerald  serpents  in 
the  starry  sky.  This  was  the  climax  of  the  evening. 
Even  the  Emperor  stood  until  the  last  gleam  had  died 
out. 

The  Duomo,  always  the  most  fascinating  and  beau- 
tiful of  Gothic  temples,  was  so  transformed  as  to 
be  indescribable.  One  could  but  look  and  admire, 
speechless. 

The  next  day  was  the  court  ball  at  the  Palazzo 
Reale.     Mrs.  Stanley  was  too  ill  to  think  of  going,  as 


S86  StageStriLck. 

married  ladies  in  Italy  must  always  wear  low  dresses 
at  court.  She  had  a  terrible  cold,  and  dressing  di- 
colletd  was  quite  out  of  the  question. 

Isabelle  was  in  despair  until  she  found  that  Mrs. 
Randall  and  Mrs.  Almont  both  promised  to  play  ball- 
mother  to  her.  The  question  of  dress  had  weighed 
heavily  on  the  minds  of  all.  Isabelle,  in  honor  of  the 
colony,  had  a  special  gown  of  white  satin,  made  in 
Marguerite  fashion,  looped  up  with  white  silver  cord 
and  tassels;  while  Annabel  was  to  wear  pale  pink 
crepe  and  moss-roses. 

On  the  eventful  evening  the  rain  poured  in  torrents 
so  that  the  streets  had  become  rivers  of  mud.  At  ten, 
however,  the  carriage  was  ready,  and  off  they  started. 
The  rain-storm  had  by  this  time  grown  into  a  tempest. 
It  was  almost  laughable  to  see  the  glum  faces  and 
rich  toilets  under  the  portico  of  Palazzo  Reale. 

Annabel  never  remembered  how  she  got  upstairs, 
what  with  the  mass  of  people,  the  noise,  and  the  move- 
ment. Some  one  snatched  her  wraps;  a  ticket  was 
given  her;  a  gentleman  in  magnificent  uniform 
offered  his  arm  first  to  Mrs.  Almont,  then  another  took 
her,  and  another  Isabelle.  Annabel  was  ushered 
straight  across  an  immense  room.  The  floor  was  so 
waxed  that  she  had  hard  work  not  to  fall,  for  she  was 
not  used  to  court  ball-rooms. 

Isabelle  was  soon  installed  in  a  high,  square,  mag- 
nificent chair  next  an  aisle;  Annabel  was  put  in  one 
of  the  same  kind  directly  opposite;  and  Mrs.  Almont 
was  beside  her  daughter.  They  sat  bolt  upright, 
scarce  daring  to  move  for  fear  of  doing  something 
outri.     Isabelle,  who  had  been  to  one  of  McMahon's 


Stage-Struck,  287 

balls  at  the  Elysee  in  Paris,  was  considered  authority 
on  the  subject;  but  here  she  felt  herself  a  novice.  She 
had  just  time  to  whisper  to  Annabel  before  they  were 
finally  settled.     She  said, 

"  I  guess  that  real  royal  balls,  with  real  kings  and 
queens,  are  different.  The  one  I  saw  was  in  a  re- 
public, you  know;  and  the  wisest  thing  for  us  to  do 
here  is  to  follow  exactly  what  everybody  else  does. 
Then  we  cannot  be  wrong." 

Annabel  quietly  acquiesced,  while  Mrs.  Almont 
nodded  affirmatively.  She  was  too  clever  even  to 
trust  herself  to  open  her  mouth.  One  word  might 
ruin  them.  She  remembered  two  old  schoolmates  in 
her  youth  who  had  discussed  their  relative  cleverness. 
"The  difference  between  you  and  me,  Bill,"  said  one 
to  the  other,  "  is  this:  I  am  a  fool,  and  know  it.  You 
are  a  fool,  and  don't  know  it." 

The  ball  took  place  in  the  beautiful  "  Salone  delle 
Caryatidir  It  is  perhaps  the  most  famous  of  the 
beautiful  ball-rooms  of  Europe.  A  gallery  which  runs 
around  the  room  was  filled  with  a  mass  of  people, 
dressed  as  though  they  were  the  gods  of  a  popular 
theatre;  and  the  contrast  was  startling  between  them 
and  the  grandly  attired  below. 

Annabel  was  about  to  call  her  mamma's  attention 
to  this,  when  the  sight  of  Isabelle  fairly  appalled  her. 
She  had  thrown  up  her  head,  and  swept  the  full  length 
of  her  satin  train  out  in  front  of  her.  A  courtier  had 
provided  her  with  a  footstool;  her  Louis  Quinze  heels 
already  dented  the  tapestry.  One  elbow  lay  laconi- 
cally on  the  arm  of  her  chair;  her  hand  held  her  open 
fan,  and  her  bouquet  on  her  lap  was  utterly  neglected. 


288  Stage-Struck, 

She  saw  nothing,  nobody;  her  face  wore  an  air  of 
absolute  indifference.  Her  manner  was  one  of  com- 
plete unconcern.  She  looked  as  insouciante  as  though 
she  had  passed  her  life  at  court  balls. 

Annabel  was  still  staring  at  her,  when  a  band  of 
music  struck  up.  Isabelle's  expression  changed. 
She  forgot  herself  long  enough  to  look  eager. 
She  did  not  stir  in  her  seat,  however.  All  at  once  she 
saw  everybody  rise.  The  bands  were  playing  the 
royal  hymn.  The  King  and  Emperor  were  entering, 
followed  by  the  royal  party. 

Annabel  and  her  mamma  were  getting  uneasy;  but 
they  waited  for  Isabelle.  At  the  last  moment  she 
gave  them  an  indescribable  look,  and  the  three  arose 
almost  simultaneously. 

When  the  royal  party  were  seated,  and  the  band 
had  stopped,  Isabelle  unbent.  She  went  so  far  as  to 
lean  over  and  to  speak  across  the  aisle. 

"I  flatter  myself  that  we  managed  that  pretty  well. 
I  defy  anybody  to  know  that  this  is  our  first,  very 
first  royal  ball !"  • 

Annabel  answered  with  a  smile?  She  and  her 
mother  looked  at  each  other.  They  dared  not  trust 
themselves  to  speak  as  yet. 

In  a  moment  the  opening  quadrille  was  danced  by 
the  royal  party  and  the  court;  then  everybody  danced. 
The  floor  was  covered  by  flying  figures  and  a  mass  of 
brilliant  uniforms.  No  two  toilets  were  alike;  all 
were  gorgeous,  and  designed  seemingly  to  outrival 
each  other  for  richness  and  taste. 

In  a  short  time  there  was  a  pause  in  the  dancing. 
A  beautiful  Englishwoman  whom  Isabelle  had  met  in 


r 


Stage-Struck.  289 

Paris  came  up  to  them.  She  brought  some  Italians 
to  present.  They  saw  Mrs.  Randall  and  family  close 
to  the  royal  party,  and  it  was  decided  to  attempt  to 
get  near  them.  Chevalier  Batgim  took  Annabel; 
Isabelle  had  Duke  Prospero's  arm;  and  in  a  moment 
they  were  in  a  circle  surrounding  the  King  and  the 
Emperor. 

"This  is  just  lovely!"  said  Isabelle.  She  was 
crowded,  crushed,  flushed,  and  decidedly  uncomforta- 
ble; but  it  would  never  do  to  say  so. 

Annabel  was  stifled,  and  her  face  wore  an  agonized 
smile.  She  had  more  standing-room  in  a  moment, 
and  could  then  better  appreciate  the  honor  of  being 
crushed  in  order  to  look  at  kings  and  queens.  She 
would  even  have  had  her  dress  torn  into  fragments, 
rather  than  have  missed  the  chance  of  seeing  the 
lovely  Princess  Margherita  of  Savoy,  of  whom  she  had 
heard  so  much. 

The  Princess  looked  particularly  happy.  She  was 
leaning  forward,  bending  her  blonde  head  with  the 
gracious  movement  and  unconscious  little  air  of 
coquetry  habitual  to  her.  Her  eyes  flashed  like  stars, 
and  her  white  skin  looked  like  the  petal  of  a  rose. 
Around  her  throat  were  almost  countless  strings  of 
superb  pearls,  for  her  husband  had  presented  her 
with  a  fresh  set  every  birthday  since  her  marriage* 
She  was  wearing  them  all.  Annabel  never  tired  of 
looking  at  her,  she  was  so  fresh,  so  innocent,  so  intel- 
ligent. Her  dress  was  of  blue  crepe  garnished  with 
lilies  and  rare  lace  floating  about  her  like  a  cloud  in 
Sorrento's  skies.  She  seemed  to  be  enjoying  herself 
to  the  utmost, 


290  Stage-Struck. 

But  she  was  evidently  getting  a  little  tired.  The 
King  spoke  to  her.  She  shook  her  head.  He  spoke 
again,  smiled,  and  said,  ^^ Ma  cornel  SiV  Then  he 
turned  to  an  aide  and  spoke  a  word.  Annabel  soon 
knew  what  it  was  all  about.  A  superb  broidered 
cushion  was  brought,  and  his  Majesty  himself  knelt 
and  placed  it  beneath  the  Princess's  feet.  It  was 
done  with  such  grace  that  Annabel  for  the  first  time 
regretted  that  she  was  not  a  royal  lady,  with  a  king 
ready  to  wait  upon  her — and  such  a  king  !  Who  did 
not  admire  him  ? 

It  was  easy  to  see  that  Victor  Emmanuel  had  great 
affection  for  his  daughter-in-law.  Isabelle  had  also 
watched  the  proceeding.  She  whispered  to  Anna- 
bel, 

"  It  may  not  be  etiquette,  but  I  must  stare  at  her. 
And  those  feet !  Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  tiny  ? 
Quite  Cinderella-like,  with  slippers — blue  satin  to 
match  her  dress,  of  course — and  lace  open-work  stock- 
ings the  very  shade  of  the  slippers.  And  those 
buckles  !     What  diamonds  !" 

The  Princess  turned  as  the  Emperor  came  to  speak 
to  her.  As  she  moved,  a  frill  of  lace  just  stirred  away 
from  the  stocking,  and  one  saw  such  an  ankle !  round 
and  slender.  She  could  certainly  have  worn  her 
bracelet  on  it. 

**  I  don't  wonder  she  wanted  a  cushion,"  said 
Isabelle.  "  It  is  worth  coming  to  the  ball  just 
to  see  her  sitting  there  as  she  is.  A  perfect  picture  of 
grace  and  loveliness  from  head  to  foot." 

They  could  not  stand  for  ever  in  the  royal  circle. 
Annabel  was  asked  to  dance,  but  declined.    It  seemed 


Stage-Struck.  291 

as  though  she  would  be  making  a  spectacle  of  her- 
self. Amidst  all  the  light  and  glitter  her  heart,  some- 
how, was  heavy.  She  kept  constantly  thinking  of 
Brakenston.     What  would  she  not  give  to  see  him  ! 

Her  reverie  was  interrupted.  Mrs.  Randall  pre- 
sented the  English  consul,  Mr.  Nelson,  a  great  and 
distinguished  writer  named  Kenniston,  and  a  friend  of 
his,  Captain  Williams,  whom  everybody  already  knew 
in  Milan.  He  was  mad  on  the  subject  of  artists  and 
music,  and  was  called  "  Billy"  by  his  intimates.  They 
were  soon  discussing  everything  and  everybody — the 
King;  the  Emperor  William;  the  belle  of  the  ball,  the 
lovely  Countess  Dal  Verni;  the  great  Sicilian  beauty, 
Princess  Paterna;  the  tall,  distinguished,  and  elegant 
Duchess  of  Mount  Lion;  and  the  host  of  beautiful 
women  so  well  known  in  Milanese  high  life.  There 
was  an  unusually  brilliant  array  of  titles  and  myriads 
of  flashing  jewels. 

Annabel  was  bewildered.  She  never  could  have 
imagined  that  there  were  so  many  princes  or  such 
long  names  in  the  world.  She  thought  she  would 
like  a  rest.     She  said  to  her  partner, 

"If  there  is  a  plain  'mister'  here,  pray  point  him 
out.     My  head  turns  with  so  much  nobility." 

Batgim  laughed.  "  Oh,  you  Americans;  you  frank 
Americans!  Yet  you  all  adore  titles.  Why?  This 
is  a  pretence  on  your  part,  is  it  not,  saying  your  head 
turns  with  so  many  nobles  ?  Why  do  all  Americans 
like  titles?     Pray  answer  me." 

"  It  is  very  simple,  chevalier.  We  are  still  a  race 
of  savages,  and,  like  many  aboriginals,  are  naturally 
suspicious.     We  like  the  best  and  to  know  the  best  in 


292  Stage-Struck. 

our  own  country.  You  yourselves  have  put  the  label 
on  that  which  you  consider  the  best.  Your  kings,  your 
sovereigns,  naturally  take  precedence.  Then  come 
your  titles.  We  do  not  know;  we  have  to  take  your 
word  for  it.  In  Europe,  people  bow  down  to  titles 
and  position.  We  are  too  clever  to  come  over  here 
and  not  let  people  see  that  we  do  exactly  as  others  do. 
We  merely  follow  your  lead.  Thinking  that  your 
ideas  of  distinction  are  quite  good  enough  for  us, 
naturally  we  also  bow  down  to  your  choice.  We  are 
also  obliged  to,  for  another  reason." 

"  Another  reason  !  If  it  be  like  the  preceding,  I 
have  no  answer  ready;  but  let  me  hear  it." 

"We  distinctly  object  to  being  taken  for  Commu- 
munists.  Revolutionists,  Nihilists,  or  Socialists.  Nat- 
urally, there  is  but  one  thing  left  for  us  to  be — in 
Italy  we  all  are — Monarchists." 

The  chevalier  bowed.  "Ah,  signorina,  that  is  in- 
deed amiable;  but,  c'est  /gal^  you  Americans  don't 
need  titles.  You  come  to  Europe  to  reign, — all  queens 
as  in  America, — and  to  break  our  hearts."  Batgim 
sighed — sighed  and  looked  tenderly  at  her. 

Annabel  politely  ignored  the  glance  and  the  sigh. 
"  Not  I  " — stoutly.  "  I  have  not  come  to  Italy  to  break 
any  one's  heart.     I — I  have  not  time." 

"  You  have  not  time  ?" — laughingly.  "  That  is 
amusing.  Why,  what  should  occupy  such  an  angelo 
as  yourself  but  being  always  pretty,  going  to  balls 
and  theatres,  and  then  thinking  of  marrying  some 
good  parti?  Yet  you  say  that  you  have  no  time, 
Pray,  what  do  you  dp  ?" 

♦*  I  studjr." 


Stage-Strtick.  293 

"  Study  !     Study  what  ?     I  do  not  understand." 

"  I  study  singing.  I  am  going  to  be  an  artist.  In 
fact,  I  came  to  Milan  to  study  for  the  stage.  I  am 
going  to  be  an  opera-singer." 

He  dropped  her  arm  as  if  she  had  stung  him.  He 
fell  back  and  stared  at  her.  "  Impossible  !  You — you 
go  on  the  stage  !  Why — you  are  a  lady  !"  He  then 
begged  to  know  if  she  were  not  jesting. 

She  assured  him  of  her  sincerity. 

"  I  refuse  to  believe  you.  I  shall  not  believe  you; 
it  hurts  my  feelings." 

She  laughed.  "  Oh,  if  you  look  at  it  in  that  light, 
let  us  drop  the  subject.  I  could  not  bear  to  hurt  your 
feelings.  And — and,  besides,  you  have  hurt  mine, 
speaking  in  that  way  about  going  on  the  stage." 

"  Billy"  came  up  at  this  moment. 

"For  all  our  sakes,  don't  mention  *  stage*  or  you 
will  get  me  started.  By  the  way,"  half  dropping  his 
voice,  "  I  got  a  'gram  before  I  came  to  the  ball.  It's 
about  your  little  compatriot  *  Sonnambula;'  first  act 
grand  success  for  Amina.  Baritone  an — asino,  and 
tenor—?" 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said  musingly,  "  if  he  let  her  take 
her  top  note  in  peace  ?" 

"  Poor  thing  !  He  took  his  in  pieces — so  my  friend 
says.  Crack — positive  rupture;  and  on  an  ordinary  B 
flat.  It  was  too  heart-rending.  What's  this  ?  The 
royal  hymn  ?  Oh,  now  they  are  going  to  make  a 
tour  of  the  ball-room.  Stop  just  where  you  are,  and 
you  can  see  all  of  the  royalties  to  perfection.  Aston- 
ishing man,  that  old  Emperor.  He  is  hale  and  as 
hearty  as — as  I  am." 


294  Stage-Struck. 

There  was  the  general  crush  of  people  trying  to 
get  nearer  the  Court;  the  masters  of  ceremony  clear- 
ing the  way  for  the  royal  cortege;  stirring  music  from 
the  band;  the  Princess  Margherita  on  the  Emperor's 
arm;  the  King  escorting  the  Duchess  of  Genova;  and 
the  princes  and  the  suite  of  court  officials  passing  in 
a  beautiful  and  imposing  file.  Then  they  disappeared 
through  the  great  doors,  and  preparations  were  made 
for  the  cotillon. 

The  great  English  writer,  presented  by  "  Billy," 
took  Annabel  towards  the  buffet.  They  got  within 
about  twenty  yards  of  it,  then  gave  up. 

Isabelle  soon  appeared,  radiant.  "  What  would  I 
not  give  for  a  glass  of  my  favorite  Geldermann!  Count 
Pertusini,"  alluding  to  her  cavalier,  "  says  when  you 
are  really  thirsty  there's  nothing  like  good  champagne. 
My  dear,"  squeezing  Annabel's  arm,  "  is  not  the  Count 
handsome  ?" 

"Yes;  but — they  are  all  so  handsome,  those  Ital- 
ians." 

"  Not  much  like  the  boys  in  the  boarding-home," 
continued  Isabelle. 

"  N— no,"  said  Annabel;  "  but  I  think  I  prefer  the 
boys." 

Mrs.  Almont  was  happy  on  the  arm  of  a  marquis,  a 
Knight  of  Malta.  They  got  on  uncommonly  well 
together;  neither  could  speak  to  the  other.  She  did 
not  even  feel  hungry.  Such  a  beautiful  ball !  Why 
did  they  come  to  the  buffet i 

Isabelle  continued:  "I  am  having  a  lovely  time. 
Just  think  of  my  luck  !  Did  you  see  me  with  that 
blond   officer?    A  German  count  on  the  Emperor's 


Stage-Strnck.  ±g^ 

staff.  He  gravely  presented  me  his  sovereign's  com- 
pliments, saying  that  I  was  the  only  lady  who,  out  of 
compliment  to  them,  wore  the  ancient  court  dress  of 
Germany,  I  was  much  amused.  Of  course  I  had  no 
such  settled  thought  when  I  ordered  my  dress;  but  I. 
did  not  tell  him  so.  What  a  joke  !  Shall  we  stop  for 
the  german  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Almont,  severely.  "  You  may  look 
on  a  little,  if  you  like;  but  Annabel  cannot,  must  not 
dance,  you  know."  There  was  an  awful  pause.  **  Danc- 
ing is  bad  for  the  voice." 

Mrs.  Almont  suddenly  remembered  her  duties  as 
chaperon.  It  would  be  quite  inconsistent  with  her 
dignity  to  permit  the  girls  everything.  They  re- 
turned for  a  moment  to  the  ball-room,  and  in  another 
hour  were  on  the  cold  stone  stairs,  waiting  for  their 
carriage. 

The  rain  was  still  pouring  in  torrents.  Coachmen 
were  looking  sullen  and  sleepy  from  under  their  rub- 
ber visors.  Footmen,  yelling,  rushed  back  and  forth; 
and  finally  Mrs.  Almont's  carriage  came  up :  and  so 
ended  their  first  royal  ball. 

Going  home  in  the  rain  !  Very  unpoetic,  very  dis- 
agreeable ;  doubly  so,  after  the  light  and  warmth  of 
a  ball-room.  But  even  royal  pleasures  rarely  last  into 
the  next  day. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

The  day  after  the  ball  Annabel  felt  as  if  all  had  not 
been  couleur  de  rose.  She  could  never  forget  her 
partner's  astonished  look  when  he  dropped  her  arm, 
and  said,  "  Gn  the  stage  ?  You  ?  Impossible  !  You 
are  a  lady."  The  words  rang  and  re-rang  in  her 
ears. 

She  recounted  the  scene  to  her  mother  and  to  the 
Stanleys.  They  were  sitting  in  Isabelle's  little  draw- 
ing-room, discussing  the  ball,  and  Annabel  hoped  to 
hear  that  the  chevalier's  opinion  was  not  general 
throughout  Italy. 

Isabelle  looked  up,  and  answered  calmly.  "  You  are 
not  clever,  my  dear.  I  have  discovered  in  Italy  that 
ladies  and  gentlemen  rarely  or  never  go  on  the  stage  ; 
when  they  do,  they  have  a  genteel  letting-alone  ever 
after.  Catch  me  at  a  court  ball  talking  shop.  Hav- 
ing discovered  the  level  of  their  idea  of  respectability, 
and  being  myself  utterly  incompetent  to  reform  so- 
ciety, I  simply  say  nothing  about  my  singing.  I  do 
iiot  think  less  of  myself.     I  am  only — " 

"Only  ashamed  to  stand  up  for  your  profession," 
Annabel  interrupted  in  an  indignant  tone. 

"  It  amounts  to  about  that  here,"  she  said  coolly. 
"  The  fact  is,  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  I  shall  go  on 
the  stage.  You  have  not  heard  and  seen  what  I  have, 
and  you  cannot  judge  so  well.    Coming  to  Italy  is  the 


Stage-Struck.  297 

shortest  and  quickest  route  for  disenchantment.  I 
may  go  on  the  stage,  because  I  should  be  ashamed  to 
back  out  after  having  gone  so  far  ;  but,  had  I  thought 
of  it,  I  would  have  warned  you  before  the  ball  not  to 
speak  of  your  intended  career.  You  should  not  have 
mentioned  opera-singing." 

"  I  shall  never  be  ashamed  to  stand  up  for  my  art." 

"Don't  be  silly,  Annabel.  Artists  get  on  well 
enough  together  in  their  own  world  ;  but  their 
special  ambition  is  to  persuade  themselves  that  they 
are  equally  great  and  equally  run  after  in  the  fashion- 
able world.  They  are  not  in  it,  my  dear,  and  never 
will  be.  Artists  are  generally  invited  to  great  houses 
simply  to  amuse  their  hosts.  They  are  paid  for  their 
services,  as  are  any  other  hirelings.  No  one  inquires 
into  their  private  lives.  The  guests  are  civil  to  them, 
stare  at  them  like  flies  in  amber,  and  are  never  inti- 
mate, except  in  the  hope  of  getting  them  to  sing  for 
nothing,  or  of  having  free  tickets  to  the  theatres.  Try 
as  they  will,  they  never  really  get  into  society,  but 
are  always  looked  upon  as  artists,  and  remain  out- 
siders." 

Mrs.  Almont  began  to  look  uneasy.  "My  dear 
Isabelle — " 

"Yes." 

"  Suppose  we  drop  the  subject.  You  and  Annabel 
cannot  agree." 

"Willingly.  We  don't  agree.  We  will  drop  the 
subject." 

Annabel  was  still  unconvinced. 

Just  then  a  package  of  American  newspapers  was 
brought  in.    At  the  same  moment  Miss  Weiss,  coming 


298  Stage-Struck. 

to  pay  Annabel  a  visit,  had  decided  to  hunt  her  up  at 
Isabel's,  rather  than  go  away  without  seeing  her.  She 
brought  in  a  letter  from  the  consulate  addressed  to 
Mrs.  Almont,  the  "  special  correspondent  of  the 
Bloomingdale  Mercury''  The  journals  were  opened, 
and  she  was  about  to  read  her  letter  when  Isabelle 
burst  out : 

"  Listen,  do.  Here  is  an  account  of  Violet  Vanessa 
singing  in  Italy,  and  I  must  read  it  aloud. 

Annabel  interrupted:  "Who  is  Vanessa?  Is  she 
singing  now  ?" 

Alice  alone  could  answer.  "She  has  not  sung  since 
her  debut  at  Genoa.  A  friend  wrote  that  notice;  I  saw 
it  before  it  went  into  print.  Her  first  appearance  was 
at  Piacenza.  She  paid  to  sing.  At  Genoa  she  sang 
for  nothing,  but  was  to  have  a  benefit.  She  only  ap- 
peared three  times  ;  then  there  was  a  cabal  against 
her  and  she  had  to  leave  town.  Since  then  she  has 
studied  with  Lamperti,  and  now  has  no  more  voice 
at  all." 

"Poor  thing!"  said  Isabelle.  "But  how  impolite 
we  are !  Mrs.  Almont,  I  am  sure  you  are  dying  to 
read  your  letter." 

Mrs.  Almont  broke  the  seal.  "  Oh,  how  curious  !'* 
Then  she  paused.  "  Annabel,  I  have  made  a  mistake. 
This  is  intended  for  you."  She  handed  it  to  her.  "  I 
suppose  it  is  from  some  one  who  thinks  that  you  are 
the  foreign  correspondent." 

"  Dear  mamma,  Isabelle,  it  is  from  a  lady  whom  I 
have  never  seen,  who  asks  my  advice  about  going 
on  the  stage.  The  letter  comes  from  the  far  West. 
Listen. 


Stage-Struck,  299 

"  'Miss  Annabel  Almont — Dear  Friend, 

"  *  Having  seen  and  read  many  of  your  artacles 
in  the  Art  Journal,  I  am  anxious  to  obtain  through 
you  infirmation  in  refirence  to  the  method  of  vocal 
training  in  Europe,  with  a  view  that  possably  i  might 
place  myself  under  instructions  at  the  hands  of  some 
of  the  masters  of  vocal  training  in  Milan. 

"  *  The  first  item  of  infirmation  of  prime  importance 
is  the  real  ability  of  the  teachers  in  that  place  to  de- 
velup  the  pupils:*  " 

"That  girl  is  no  fool,"  Isabella  interrupted. 

"Perhaps  not;  but  every  second  word  is  misspelled. 
She  writes  *  develup.'  "     She  continued : 

"  *  And  of  course  the  expense  of  vocal  and  dramatic 
culture,  also  instruction  in  the  French  and  Italian 
languagies,  and  living  taken  into  the  account — ' " 

"Yes,  living  is  rather  an  important  item,"  inter- 
rupted Mrs.  Stanley.  "  I  wonder  if  she  intended  to 
starve — " 

"  *  As  compaired  to  the  French  schools,  could  you 
give  me  such  infirmation  without  to  great  inconve- 
niance  to  yourself  ?  It  will  be  highly  apreciated  by 
me,  as  I  intend  placing  myself  under  the  instruction 
of  the  most  competent  master  I  can  find. 

"*I  think  I  should  do  so  in  view  of  the  unexpected 
develupment  of  my  voice  within  the  last  few  months, 
under  the  very  imperfect  and  unsatisfactory  training 
of  teachers  here,  it  having  attained  the  compas  of  (3) 
three  octaves  and  three  notes,  reaching  high  F  clearly 
and  with  perfect  ease,  and  low  C  in  the  bass.     Any 


300  Stage-Struck. 

sugestion  from  you  will  be  kindly  received  and  highly 
apreciated. 

"  *  I  may  be  compeled  to  come  alone.  If  so,  how- 
could  I  get  along  in  that  great  Babel  of  the  wourld  ? 
I  fear;  I  trembel  when  I  think  of  it.  I  am  informed 
you  have  your  mother  with  you.  What  a  comfort  and 
pertection  she  must  be  to  you!  Inclosed  you  will  find 
a  critic  from  the  Inter-Ocean.  I  have  sang  in  several 
concerts  scince,  and  have  been  highly  received  from 
the  audience.  7  bouquets,  i  basket  of  flowers,  and  a 
laurel  wreath  for  my  head.'  " 

"  My  word,  did  she  expect  it  was  for  her  heels  ?" 
"Isabelle,  don't  interrupt,  please."     Continuing: 
"  *  My  head.     I  came  very  near  going  then  and  there 
to  Italy,  but  defered  it  uritill  some  more  faverable 
time. 

"  *  With  Heavens  help,  I  hope  to  accomplish  myself 
in  this  respect.  Send  me  an  answer  as  soon  as  con- 
venient to  you,  and  all  the  infirmation  you  can.  You 
don't  know  how  anxiously  I  look  for  the  journal  every 
Sabbath  on  acct  of  the  musical  reports  and  your  very 
interesting  artacles.  I  must  bid  you  good  night,  as 
it  is  bed-time,  and  I  am  somewhat  ty-ard,  while  I  re- 
main, Yours  truly, 

"  *  Tarasa  dil  Vino  (Smith). 

"  *  P.S. — My  respects  to  your  Dear  Mother.  Perhaps 
she  will  remember  me  for  we  were  introduced  at  Sig- 
nor  Frenzi's  music  sooriis. 

"  *  Please  return  the  critic  for  me.  It's  all  I  have 
from  the  /.  O,  Direct  to  P.  O.,  box  19,000,  Cook  Co., 
III.,  U.S.A." 


Stage-Struck.,  301 

Annabel  looked  up  and  colored.  "  This  is  so  strange. 
I  really  don't  know  what  to  say.  Besides,  mamma 
should  answer,  not  I." 

"  Give  me  the  letter,"  said  Isabelle.  "  Ah!  this  is 
bad  spelling.  However,  that's  nothing.  I  have  seen 
the  time  I  could  not  spell  either.  That  time  is  now. 
But  she  may  have  a  fine  voice  ior  all  that.  Answer  at 
once,  and  tell  her  to  come." 

"  Oh  no  !     I  could  not  honestly  do  that.** 

Mrs.  Almont  thought  it  quite  time  to  interfere. 
"  You  are  wrong" — promptly.  "  Tell  her  just  what 
Milan  is  like,  and  as  there  are  only  a  thousand  P.  D.'s 
without  engagements,  let  her  take  her  chances.  Be- 
sides, she  is  now  incurable.  A  girl  convinced  that  her 
voice  is  so  extraordinary  is  ready  for  anything.  She 
would  make  any  sacrifice  to  get  on  the  stage.  Besides, 
she  has  studied  with  Signer  Frenzi,  and  that  settles 
it.  He  has  broken  up  more  homes  than  any  other 
singing-teacher  on  the  American  continent." 

"  If  she  comes,"  said  Alice,  "  she  must  go  to  the 
master.     I  will  tell  him  of  her  to-morrow." 

"  Dear  Alice,  don't  think  of  such  a  thing,"  said  Isa- 
belle. "  He  will  tremble  so  that  he  will  break  his  bed 
down.  The  idea  of -teaching  such  a  voice!  No,  no, 
do  not  raise  up  false  hopes.  She  may  not  wish  to 
study  with  him." 

Mrs.  Almont  rose  to  go.  Isabelle's  last  words  made 
her  smile;  while  Annabel  unconsciously  re-read  her 
letter. 

"Come,  Annabel;  I  have  decided.  I  will  answer 
in  a  general  letter  to  the  Art  Journal — my  paper" — 
proudly.     "Then,  if  she  comes,  well  and  good;  ther§ 


302  Stage-Struck. 

is  room  for  all.  There  will  be  one  more  American, 
with  a  marvellous  voice,  in  Milan,  the  greatest  music 
centre  in  all  the  world.  A  lovely  ball,  was  it  not  ?  I 
got  on  splendidly  with  the  marquis.  I  do  adore  the 
dress  of  the  Knights  of  Malta.  What  a  pity  I  spoke 
no  French,  and  he  no  English! — but  that  is  a  mere 
bagatelle.  In  high  society  one  always  gets  on.  The 
universal  language  of  sympathy  and  politeness  is 
quite  comprehensive  enough  for  me.  I  must  go. 
Come,  Annabel.  Good-by.  We  shall  meet  to-mor- 
row at  the  maestro's." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

A  MOMENT  came  of  terrible  impecuniosity  amongst 
the  students.  No  supplies  from  home,  no  scritture^ 
and  no  more  valuables  left  to  pawn.  With  all  of  this 
Mamina  grew  worse,  and  felt  she  should  have  to  give 
up  the  boarding-house.  The  poor  woman  was  so  ill 
she  had  to  retire  from  business,  and  the  pensione 
threatened  falling  into  strange  hands. 

Six  weeks  had  passed  since  the  ball.  Annabel  had 
continued  her  lessons  with  unflagging  vigor.  There 
was  good  news  from  home.  Her  father  was  better; 
and  kind  Uncle  Jim  had  written,  expressing  himself 
as  very  proud  of  his  clever  little  niece.  A  letter  came 
from  Victor  Angel.     It  was  short  but  concise: 

"Dear  Miss  Almont: 

"  To  my  joy,  I  am  on  the  eve  of  leaving  Paris. 
My  teacher  is  a  fool,  so  I  must  quit  him.  My  friends 
agree  with  me  that  my  voice  was  made  for  certain 
r6les.  He  refuses  to  teach  them  to  me,  so  I  start  for 
Milan  to-morrow.  Do  have  them  keep  a  room  for 
me  at  the  boarding-house  Americana.  I  have  a  world 
of  things  to  tell  you.  Hope  you  are  both  well  and 
happy.  I  feel  staving,  now  that  I  have  decided  to 
leave  my  master.  By  the  way,  his  method  was  begin- 
ning to  pall  upon  me.  I  used  to  commence  my  lesson 
by  singing  F,  with  my  right  arm  up  over  my  head; 


304  Stage-Struck, 

then  G  with  my  left  up;  then  A  flat  with  both  arms 
up.  Then  I  put  my  hands  behind  me  to  take  the  ex- 
treme upper  notes.  After  that  I  had  to  lie  full  length 
on  a  marble  slab,  flat  on  my  back,  and  sing  my  hard- 
est airs,  just  to  see  how  the  voice  worked  while  the 
body  was  in  perfect  repose.  Frenetica  pretends  that 
the  great  development  of  the  voice  goes  on  while  we 
sleep,  or  while  our  bodies  are  etendues  full  length.  He 
is  the  rage  now  in  Paris,  and,  to  prove  it,  he  has 
just  bought  a  villa  at  Asnieres.  I  liked  some  things 
about  him,  but  I  hated  the  slab  trick.  Besides  'bust- 
ing '  all  of  my  best  clothes,  I  felt  as  if  I  were  at  the 
Morgue.  Blessed  if  I  have  not  had  a  genteel  suffi- 
ciency of  the  full-length  method  and  of  Paris  teachers! 
"Good-by,  and  Heaven  bless  you!  My  high  C  is 
not  quite  as  strong  as  it  was. 
"  With  sincere  regards, 

"  Your  friend  and  admirer, 

"  Victor  Angel." 

"Well — well — well  !"  Annabel  folded  up  her  let- 
ter. There  was  a  rap  at  the  door,  and  nearly  a  dozen 
of  the  students  appeared,  headed  by  Mrs,  Manners. 

"  My  dear,  Mamina  goes  home  to  live  with  her 
niece,  an  Italian  marchioness,"  she  said.  "She  is  too 
ill  to  keep  on.  Mr.  Fay,  who  has  lost  his  voice  and 
can't  sing  any  more,  so  as  not  to  be  out  of  employ- 
ment, has  consented  to  run  the  boarding-house.  We 
are  so  glad,  as  we  were  all  in  danger  of  starving. 
There  is  to  be  a  complete  change  in  all  arrange- 
ments, and  Christmas  night  there  is  to  be  a  house- 
warming." 


\ 


Stage-Struck,  305 

This  was  December  the  23d.  Fay  was  looked  upon 
as  a  wholesale  preserver.  The  following  day  the 
changes  were  effected. 

A  musical  student  in  Milan  could  do  without  a 
great  many  things  in  order  to  save  money.  He 
starved  his  body  and  went  without  fire  in  winter 
weather  in  order  to  pay  some  charlatan  of  a  teacher 
for  two  lessons  a  day  of  an  hour  each,  instead  of  one. 

Garcia,  Trivulsi,  Viardot,  Leonard,  in  fact,  all  the 
great  teachers,  refuse  to  give  more  than  three  or  four 
hour-lessons  during  the  week;  but  in  Italy  there  are 
many  masters  who  insist  that  two  lessons  a  day  are 
absolutely  necessary  for  any  one  who  hopes  to  become 
an  opera-singer. 

The  only  result  is  that  pupils  spoil  their  voices  and 
fill  the  pockets  of  these  harpies.  It  takes  any  throat 
three  years  to  know  what  to  do.  Two  lessons  a  day 
cannot  hasten  the  mechanical  part  of  learning  to  sing. 
Even  singing  an  hour  daily  for  a  consecutive  month 
may  seriously  impair  the  quality  of  the  most  beautiful 
voice. 

Annabel  went  regularly  to  the  maestro,  but  she  did 
not  always  study.  She  was  his  pet,  his  dear  Annabel- 
lina.  No  pains  were  too  great  for  him  to  take  with 
her.  The  house  was  like  her  own  home.  The  sig- 
nora  loved  her.  Marietta  was  her  devoted  slave,  and 
Federico  fairly  worshipped  her.  The  instant  she 
darkened  the  door  the  little  birds  flew  to  greet  her, 
and  she  would  often  take  them  chirping  into  her 
hand.  Then,  when  the  lesson  was  finished,  she  would 
sit  for  hours  by  the  old  man's  bedside. 

Not  unfrequently  did  both  mother  and  daughter 


3o6  Stage-Struck, 

join  in  their  humble  meal;  and  during  the  evening 
the  maestro  would  talk  to  her  about  her  voice — about 
the  great  singers  and  the  years  he  had  devoted  to 
study  before  hoping  or  thinking  to  sing  in  public.  Tri- 
vulsi  had  advised  her  to  go  as  often  as  possible  to  the 
opera,  and  especially  to  the  Dall  Verme,  where  she 
would  hear  the  "  Favorita"  sung  by  Galletti,  the  only 
woman  who  knew  how  to  phrase  and  sing  in  a  pure 
old  Italian  style. 

She  had  just  heard  this  great  artist  for  the  fourth 
time,  and  so  well  imitated  her  style  and  manner  of 
singing,  that  the  maestro  declared  it  seemed  almost 
like  listening  to  Galletti  herself. 

She  had  not  been  to  La  Scala,  as  it  closed  immedi- 
ately after  the  emperor's  visit;  but  she  had  been  to 
the  Carcano  and  a  beautiful  opera-house  near  the  Pi- 
azza D'Armi;  also  to  the  Teatro  Castelli,  another 
theatre  where  good  opera  can  always  be  heard  for 
minimum  prices. 

By  this  time  Annabel  spoke  Italian  fluently.  She 
played  the  piano  as  do  few  virtuose;  and  sometimes, 
when  she  had  finished  her  lesson,  she  practised  duets 
with  Federico.  These  were  happy  hours  for  master 
and  pupil. 

Mrs.  Almont  often  said,  "  Annabel,  we  spend  nearly 
half  of  our  time  at  the  maestro's."  And  this  was 
nearly  true. 

Christmas-eve  was  passed  in  writing  letters  and  in 
helping  Fay  with  preparations  for  the  great  house- 
warming. 

All  of  the  guests  had  carte-blanche  to  invite  their 
friends  to  the  soirie.     There  was  no  Christmas-tree, 


Stage-Struck,  307 

but  the  old  stone  walls  were  hung  with  mistletoe  and 
evergreens,  so  that  the  place  looked  transformed. 
The  "  boys"  had  worked  like  slaves.  Every  window 
was  decorated;  the  candelabra  and  mirrors  shone  like 
those  at  the  Palazzo  Reale.^  Following  the  American 
fashion,  stockings  had  been  hung  up  the  night  before 
to  see  what  Santa  Claus  would  put  in  them,  and  the 
new  master  of  the  house  on  entering  the  dining-room 
on  Christmas-day  found  a  substantial  pair  of  socks 
well  stuffed  with  presents. 

They  all  liked  Frank;  he  was  a  prime  favorite. 
They  wished  him  well,  and  had  determined  that  the 
boarding-house,  with  their  help,  should  be  run  on  the 
strict  American  plan.  They  regretted  the  loss  of  his 
voice  more  than  the  loss  of  Mamina;  but  each  time 
they  met  they  consoled  him  in  the  stereotyped  way, 
"  How's  your  voice,  Frank  ? — no  better  ?  What  a 
good  thing  that  this  scheme  turned  up  in  the  mean 
time!  It  is  indeed  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nowhere. 
It  is  a  pity,  but  we  all  profit  by  your  not  being  able 
to  accept  engagements." 

The  consolations,  as  Fay  himself  said,  were  rather 
"  too  thin,"  and  wouldn't  wash.  Still,  being  a  good- 
natured  fellow,  he  said  that  he  was  quite  satisfied 
with  the  turn  things  had  taken.  So  the  boarding- 
house  was  opened  with  hope  for  its  sole  capital,  and 
with  hungry  students,  a  few  pots  and  pans,  for  its 
plant. 

Mrs.  Almont  and  Mrs.  Manners  thought  they  would 
look  around  the  kitchen  before  going  to  church.  Fay 
was  storming  about,  with  an  apron  and  white  cap  on. 
Two  dark,  sleepy-looking  women  dogged  his  glances, 


3o8  Stage-Struck. 

and  a  burly  porter  stood  against  the  wall  staring  at 
him. 

Fay  raged  forth.  "  Look  at  this  stove!  You  call 
this  a  stove,  or  a  place  fit  to  cook  anything  on  ?  I 
wonder  we  ever  got  anything  to  eat.  This  is  the  way 
of  getting  a  square  meal  in  France  or  Italy.  An  open 
chimney,  filthier  and  darker  than  Erebus.  Two  holes 
with  a  cracked  grate,  one  match,  one  scrap  of  paper, 
two  sticks  laid  crosswise,  and  there  you  have  the 
wherewith  to  cook  food.  Give  me  a  cheerful  kitchen, 
with  a  red-hot  stove;  it  warms  one  outside  if  it  does 
not  in.  This  cold,  gloomy  sepulchre,  and  those 
shivering  sticks  are  enough  to  make  a  horse  break  his 
bridle  with  rage.  I  should  like  to  interview  this 
chimney  with  a  little  petroleum.  I  wish  I  had  a  can 
of  kerosene.  This  fire  would  go,  or  result — one 
funeral  in  the  colony  announced  for  ten  sharp,  to- 
morrow." 

The  ladies  lifted  their  hands  in  horror,  crying, 
"Goodness,  Fay!     Is  this  our  Christmas  breakfast  ?" 

Mrs.  Manners  paled  as  she  spoke.  "I  have  seen 
kitchens  before;  but  the  look  of  this  one  is  simply 
heart-rending.'* 

"  Trust  me,"  said  Fay;  "  you  will  soon  see  a  fire  in 
that  chimney  big  enough  to  roast  an  ox,  or  you  will 
see  the  chimney  *  ruptured.'  Here  Giulia,  Giovanna, 
Paolo!  Get  wood,  coal,  sticks,  quick!  I  have  got 
our  Christmas  in  that  basket;  and  bless  me  if  we 
don't  have  as  good  a  breakfast  and  dinner  as  you  ever 
had  in  America,  or  I'll  pass  in  my  checks  for  a  ring- 
tailed  roarer." 

The  basket  was  inspected.     There  were  two  tur- 


Stage-Struck,  309 

keys,  an  enormous  goose,  some  ducks,  ana  some 
chickens. 

"  Look  here,"  continued  Fay.  "  I  put  a  pot  of 
beans  last  night  to  bake  in  this  oven.  I  had  forgotten 
that  there  was  no  way  of  keeping  the  fire.  The  beans 
were  frozen  stiff  when  I  came  down  this  morning; 
each  bean  looked  like  a  paralyzed  pea-nut.  I  guess 
we  can  get  some  brown  bread,  and  the  stuffing  for 
those  fowls.  I  swear  I  will  make  it  myself  rather 
than  be  without  it  for  our  Christmas.  The  bread's 
soaking  in  that  bowl.  I  have  oysters  and  white 
truffles,  and  we  will  have  such  a  stuffing  as  no  turkey 
ever  had  on  any  continent  outside  of  America.  Catch 
me!  I  may  never  be  an  opera-singer,  but  I  am  a 
good  cook.  I  know  what's  what.  There  will  be  no 
slip  up  on  this  Christmas;  not  if  I  know  myself,  and  I 
think  I  do." 

"  Bravo,  Fay!  I  was  going  to  church;  but  I'll  give 
it  up  if  you  need  any  help." 

Mrs.  Manners  looked  the  picture  of  self-abnegation 
as  she  spoke.  "  I  wonder,  what  about  pies.  Have  we 
any  mince-meat?" 

Fay's  voice  rose  to  a  shriek.  "  Mince-meat  ?"  He 
glanced  at  Giovanna,  who  had  just  entered.  She 
trembled  under  his  angry  eye.  "  I  got  up  at  four 
o'clock  this  morning,  thinking  of  that,  and  chopped 
apples,  and  hashed  meat,  until  my  head  swam.  I  left 
my  work  to  go  to  market,  and  when  I  returned  that 
*  hussy  '  had  thrown  everything  into  the  slop-pail.  I 
tell  you  my  heart  stopped  beating;  but  it  was  no  use 
' — my  mince-pies  to  be  are  non  est.''  He  dashed  up 
to  the  chimney  and  commenced  making  the  fire. 


3IO  St  age-Struck, 

Mrs.  Almont  was  consoling.  "It  is  a  shame.  How 
mad  you  must  have  been!  W^  will  remedy  that,  how- 
ever. I  am  famous  at  making  pie-crust;  we  will  set 
the  girls  to  stone  raisins,  the  boys  to  hash  the  meat, 
and  Mrs.  Manners  and  myself  can  make  the  pies  in  a 
jiff." 

Mrs.  Manners  nodded.     Fay  raged  on. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  such  idiots  ?  Look  at  the  three 
standing  there.  No  one  makes  a  move  to  offer  me 
even  a  match.  Here  I  am  blistering  my  hands — 
they  are  filled  with  slivers.  I  am  covering  myself 
with  smuts,  and  those  twenty-two  carat  duffers  are 
glaring  helplessly  at  each  other,  then  grinning  at  me." 

^ay  looked  half  wild.  Mrs.  Manners  was  cool- 
headed.  She  spoke  sharply  to  the  poor  creatures, 
who  were  not  unwilling  to,  but  fearful  of  lifting  a 
hand.  They  could  scarcely  realize  that  "  II  Signor 
Fay,"  such  a  sweet  opera-singer,  was  going  to  be 
"  the  chief  cook  and  bottle-washer."  They  were  half 
dazed,  and  the  unhappy  mistake  of  throwing  his 
cherished  mince-meat  into  the  slops  had  damped  their 
general  ardor.  As  soon  as  Mrs.  Manners  spoke  they 
commenced  bustling  about.  They  could  do  every- 
thing. Giovanna  tried  to  explain  about  the  mince- 
meat. Her  tears  and  her  patois  flowed  together. 
"  Certainly,"  they  repeated,  "  II  Signor  Fay  was 
angry."  They  clasped  simultaneous  hands  on  their 
bosoms,  crying,  "  Angry  ?     Certo,  certo, " 

There  were  soon  more  certos  flying  about  that  kit- 
chen than  smuts  about  the  chimney.  Fay  tried  to 
nurse  his  ill-temper,  but  in  vain.  It  was  useless 
being  angry.      Italian   servants  are  as   irresponsible 


St  age-Struck.  311 

as  kittens,  and  these  three  certainly  had  no  malice 
prepense. 

In  a  few  moments  the  great  fireplace  glowed  like 
Vulcan's  forge.  Fay  had  made  the  fire  not  alone  in 
the  two  orthodox  holes:  he  had  covered  the  whole 
top  with  kindlings  and  wood.  A  red  flame  shot  up 
into  the  chimney;  the  stone  floor  reflected  flickering 
shadows,  and  the  kitchen  began  to  look  something 
like. 

Mrs.  Stanley  glanced  at  the  poultry.  "Now,  how 
about  chicken  salad  ?  We  must  have  some,  you 
know." 

"  By  Jove,  I  should  say  so.  An  American  Christ- 
mas without  salad!  Never!  But  have  we  time?" 
He  sighed,  then  shivered.  "  Good  Lord,  this  winter! 
this  fire! — it  looks  as  if  it  were  going  out.  That's  the 
way  when  one  is  in  a  hurry.  It  even  takes  eggs  longer 
to  boil  in  cold  weather."  He  kept  stirring  up  his 
fuel,  which  finally  consented  to  ignite.  Fay  dragged 
some  rugs  forth  from  an  adjoining  cabinet  or  small 
bedroom.  The  ladies  were  soon  seated  with  their 
feet  well  protected  from  the  stone  floor.  They  were 
barely  at  work  preparing  their  mince-meat  when  the 
door  flew  open,  and  in  came  about  ten  of  the  other 
boarders. 

"Here  we  are."  They  were  laughing  and  talking 
as  gayly  as  possible.  "A  merry  Christmas,  Frank. 
Can  we  do  anything  to  help  ?  What,  mince-pies  ? 
Never!  Come,  girls  and  boys,  let  us  have  a  finger  in 
this  at  once." 

"  No,  no,  no."  Fay  looked  wild  again.  "  One  or 
two  may  help,  but  it  is  impossible  for  us  all  to  stay  in 


312  Stage-Struck, 

this  kitchen.  Mrs.  Manners,  choose  your  aids.  The 
rest  must  go.     A  propos^  when  shall  we  breakfast  ?" 

"  When  church  is  out.  Say  half-past  twelve.  We 
are  all  going  to  the  English  chapel.  You  know  Vis- 
count de  Torbot  is  organist,  but  to-day  he  blooms  as 
a  tenor.  I  would  not  miss  that  for  a  deal."  Urbini 
had  answered  for  all.  "  He  has  got  the  whole  of 
Milan  in  an  uproar  over  his  voice.  We  are  all  going. 
He  will  probably  burst  on  the  'Cujas;*  but  life  is 
long." 

Fay  was  interested.  He  forgot  that  he  was  the 
proprietor,  and  he  deliberately  whistled.  "I  say, 
boys,  the  viscount,  eh  ?  I  have  half  a  mind  to  go  my- 
self." 

"What,  you  go! — and  our  breakfast  and  our  din- 
ner ?"    There  was  a  general  howl. 

Fay  looked  guilty.  "  Sure  enough  I  had  forgotten. 
But  missing  that  performance  does  seem  a  sacrifice. 
Still,  even  if  he  does  rupture  on  his  A  flat,  a  friendly 
hand  would  soon  pull  him  together." 

"Performance!"  Mrs.  Manners  opened  her  eyes. 
"Have  you  forgotten  that  this  is  Christmas  morning, 
and  you  are  speaking  of  a  church,  not  a  theatre.  I 
am  shocked." 

At  this  there  was  a  general  murmur.  "  Of  course 
we  did  not  mean  anything,  only  our  way  of  speak- 
ing."    Halden's  voice  was  uppermost. 

"You  are  sure  we  cannot  help  ?"  said  Urbini. 

"  Oh,  Cheru  stops  and  also  Miss  Annabel,"  said 
Fay. 

"  Cheru,  I  thought  you  were  too  grand  to  stone 
raisins,"  said  Urbini;  "but  we  are  all  apt  to  be  de- 


Stage-Struck.  313 

ceived.  Fried  chicken,  I  suppose,  for  breakfast,  and 
griddle  cakes  ?" — turning  again  to  Fay.  "  Well,  you 
are  a  brick.     I — " 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  clear  out,  all  of  you."  He 
seized  an  enormous  duster.  A  cloud  of  dust  and  soot 
darkened  the  air  in  its  immediate  vicinity.  The  kit- 
chen was  emptied  in  two  seconds. 

Fay  stuck  his  head  outside  of  the  door.  "  I  say, 
try  and  be  home  in  time.  Half-past  twelve,  and  don't 
forget  to  notice  each  note  and  his  general  style  in 
singing  the  *Cujas.*  I  bet  a  dollar  Rossini  would 
come  out  of  his  grave  head  first  could  he  but  hear 
him.  He  is  sure  to  murder  it;  Englishmen  always  do: 
but  I  forgot — he  is  an  Irishman.  The  same  thing. 
Bring  a  man  up  on  water-soaked  potatoes  cooked  over 
a  slow  bog  fire,  then  expect  him  to  outsing  Rubini!" 

Urbini  answered  back.  "  That's  right.  Fay.  Look 
out  for  the  inner  man.  We'll  be  here  sharp  half-past 
twelve.  '  Let  the  breakfast  savor  as  little  as  possible 
of  the  Emerald  Isle.  The  only  bogwood  I  have  ever 
seen  was  but  fit  to  make  into  breastpins  and  jewelry. 
You  shall  have  a  medal,  though,  if  that  fried  chicken 
— O  days  of  sweet  and  sunny  childhood!  Let  us 
have  some  hash.     What  do  you  say,  boys  ?" 

"  Hash,  hash,  by  all  means." 

"All  right,"  Fay  made  a  note  of  it.  "Anything 
else  ?" 

"No,  I  guess  not.     Good-by. 

"  Good-by  until  breakfast." 

Fay  re-entered  his  kitchen.  He  dropped  into  a 
chair,  fairly  faint  from  exhaustion;  but  there  is  no 
peace  for  the  wicked.     In  a  moment  he  was  at  a  long 


314  Stage-Struck, 

dissecting  table  where  his  various  purchases  had  been 
laid  out. 

The  mince-meat  was  getting  on  when  the  door 
again  burst  open.  Paolo  led  in  a  fair,  handsome 
stranger. 

"  Don't  get  up,  Mrs.  Almont.  Don't  disturb  your- 
self, Miss  Annabel.  I  have  heard  all  about  the  board- 
ing-house." 

Fay  was  brandishing  a  chicken  in  the  air  and  star- 
ing at  the  new-comer. 

"Good  Lord,  I  am  tired,  but  I  am  in  time  to  wish 
you  all  a  merry  Christmas.  This  is  Mr.  Fay,  I  pre- 
sume?    Introduce  me,  please." 

"  Certainly."  Mrs.  Almont  arose  with  great  pre- 
cipitation. "  Mr.  Frank  Fay,  Mr.  Victor  Angel.  Mr. 
Angel,  Mr.  Fay." 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

The  morning  passed  but  too  quickly.  Not  only- 
had  the  mince-pies  turned  out  to  perfection,  but 
a  variety  of  cakes,  custards,  and  "goodies"  were 
ranged  on  a  sideboard,  awaiting  the  Christmas  din- 
ner. The  dining-room  was  indeed  a  pretty  picture. 
The  tables  were  loaded  down  with  flowers.  The 
glass  and  china  were  not  of  rock-crystal  or  Sevres; 
but  everything  shone,  and  the  clean  damask  and 
polished  dinner-service  were  good  enough  for  any 
house. 

What  a  noise  there  was  when  they  all  came  into 
the  room!  The  life  and  gayety  were  something  over- 
whelming. Forty  sat  down;  and  just  as  the  last  chair 
was  placed,  Lara  came  in,  fresh  from  her  triumph. 

"What,  Lara!  Where  on  earth  do  you  come  from  ? 
What  can  have  happened  ?" 

She  smiled.     "  The  old  story." 

Fay's  head  peered  in  from  the  kitchen,  where  he 
was  superintending  the  serving-up  of  his  feast.  The 
unusual  excitement  had  disturbed  him.  He  heard 
and  saw  Lara,  and  then  finished  her  sentence  for  her. 
"  Manager  *  busted,'  I  suppose  ?  A  merry  Christmas  ! 
You  are  just  in  time.  Say  no  more.  We  are  sorry 
for  you,  but  glad  to  have  you  back."  Fay's  head 
disappeared  again  behind  the  door. 

Lara  explained.     The  impresario  had  indeed  fled. 


3i6  Stage-Struck, 

She  had  managed  to  get  back  to  Milan,  and  Heaven 
alone  knew  where  the  rest  of  the  company  were  ! 

Angel  was  the  first  to  speak.  He  was  already  as 
much  at  home  as  if  he  had  been  with  them  a  year. 
He  told  them  of  Paris,  the  teachers,  and  his  own  ex- 
perience. 

"  There  is  little  chance  of  a  thing  like  this  happen- 
ing in  France,  as  there  are  so  few  independent  im- 
presarios, so  many  of  the  theatres  are  in  the  hands  of 
the  government  officials;  but  I  suppose  in  Italy  one 
must  take  one's  chance." 

"  By  the  way,  how  did  the  Viscount  sing  this  morn- 
ing?"    Mrs.  Manners  was  curious. 

"  Sing !  sing !"  They  all  spoke  at  once.  "  He 
cracked  on  even  A  flat.  A  frog  came  into  his  throat 
just  as  he  was  about  to  sing  it.  You  should  have  seen 
the  au — congregation  stare  at  the  choir." 

Fay's  head  was  again  at  the  door.  "  How  are  you 
getting  on  ?  Want  anything  ?  How  was  the  oyster- 
soup  ?  So  he  cracked,  did  he  ?  I  knew  he  would. 
But  how  is  that  soup  ?" 

Carlo  Lansini  spoke.  "  Good,  good  !  never  tasted 
better.  But  come  along  in,  Fay.  Here  is  a  place  for 
you.  Those  two  madonnas  can  get  on  now  in  the  kit- 
chen.    You  are  having   no  Christmas  dinner  at  all." 

**  That's  so  !  that's  so  !" — chorus.  **  Come  in,  and  we 
will  wait  on  ourselves." 

Fay  politely  declined,  but  promised  to  join  them  a 
little  later  on,  when  the  birds  were  ready  to  be  served. 
He  disappeared;  the  door  shut  with  a  bang;  there  was 
a  sound  of  a  crash  in  the  kitchen,  and  general  conster- 
nation amongst  the  guests. 


Stage-Struck.  3 1 7 

Annabel  for  the  first  time  noticed  a  stranger  student 
seated  at  their  table.  He  was  no  longer  a  young  man 
— in  short,  he  was  past  middle  age — and  seemed  to 
know  nobody. 

Mrs.  Manners  soon  enlightened  her.  "A  gentle- 
man, dear,  travelling  for  health,  profit,  and  pleasure; 
very  fond  of  music;  arrived  a  few  days  ago  to  buy 
silk-worms;  but  now  has  decided  to  cultivate  his 
voice  for  the  stage.  He  heard  of  this  house,  and 
came  here  yesterday.  Fay  told  me  that  he  hoped  he 
would  be  pleased.     His  name  is — " 

Mrs.  Manners,  in  trying  to  think  of  his  name, 
glanced  half  inadvertently  at  him.  She  bowed.  He 
bowed  with  extreme  pleasure,  and  she  commenced 
conversation  at  once. 

"Ah,  excuse  me,  Mr. — " 

"Raymond." 

"Of  course,  Mr.  Raymond.  I  thought  I  recognized 
you,  but  was  not  quite  sure."  Fay  had  introduced 
them  on  the  outer  staircase.  "  Have  you  enjoyed 
your  Christmas  ?" 

"  Very  much.  I  have  been  wondering  at  the  change 
in  this  dining-room  since  yesterday.  It  reminds  one 
of  the  description  of — of — " 

" Belshazzar's  feast,  I  presume  you  would  say? 
Well,  I  must  admit  we  have  all  had  a  hand  in  getting 
ready  for  Christmas.  Have  you  met  any  of  the  others  ?" 

"No." 

"Pray  let  me  present  you."  Then  she  introduced 
him  to  every  one  at  their  table. 

Isabelle  darted  a  look  at  him.  "  I  am  sure  you  are 
English." 


3 1 8  Stage-Struck, 

"Yes;  and  you  naturally  American." 

She  laughed.     "This  is  home-like  ;  is  it  not?" 

Just  then  there  ensued  a  bedlam  discussion  and 
loud  voices  mingled  with  screams  of  laughter. 

Mr.  Raymond  smiled.  "Home?  Well,  yes;  it  is 
rather  home-like.  You  are  all  very  gay,  I  must  say; 
but  my  home  isn't  quite  as  lively  as  this." 

"  Ah,  that  is  the  reason,  I  presume,  you  left  it  ?" 

Fay's  head  was  again  at  the  door.  "  Here  you  are, 
done  to  a  turn.  We  are  one  duck  less.  Paolo,  like 
the  clumsy  idiot  he  is,  dropped  the  whole  thing  on 
the  floor,  smashed  the  platter,  and  only  by  a  vigorous 
sweep  of  this  noble  right  hand  did  I  catch  one  duck 
on  the  fly,  clutch  it,  and  bear  it  in  triumph  to  the 
table.  I  speared  it  with  a  toasting-fork  ;  so  excuse  the 
prongs,  which  have  slightly  deranged  the  skin.  Now 
I  am  ready  to  join  you." 

"  Bravo !  bravo  !  Three  cheers  for  Fay  !  A  merry 
Christmas  !  Who  says  that  we  don't  know  how  to 
get  up  a  first-class  dinner  ?" 

As  Fay  solemnly  marched  to  the  table  with  the 
duck,  everybody  cheered  the  hero  of  the  hour.  He 
bowed — bowed  repeatedly,  and  colored  with  pleasure. 
Then  he  sat  down  with  the  boys,  quite  near  to  the 
kitchen-door,  so  that  he  could  be  on  hand  in  case  of 
need. 

Giulia  waited  at  their  table.  She  was  spoiled,  co- 
quettish, but  was  always  respectful,  never  taking  ad- 
vantage of  their  chaffing  and  familiarity.  It  was 
Giulia  here,  Giulia  there,  and  the  girl's  head  was 
nearly  being  turned. 

"  Giulia,  give  us  some  cranberry-sauce," 


Stage-Struck.  319 

"  Conie^  signore,  scusa  ma  non — " 

"  Cranberries  !  I  say,  Fay,  I  knew  that  there  was 
something  lacking.  By  Jove !  no  American  ever 
heard  of  turkey  without  cranberries  !" 

Carlo  Lansini  and  Halden  groaned  simultaneously. 

"  I  have  made  it  up  to  you  in  chicken-salad,  shrimps, 
and  lobsters;  salad  with  a  whole  forest  of  celery.  Un- 
grateful wretches  !" 

Such  chicken- salad  was  a  real  surprise.  Fay  was 
toasted  again.  Giulia  watched  them  with  her  eyes 
widely  opened.  After  the  salad  had  gone  the  round 
once,  Urbini  thought  he  would  take  a  second  help. 
Giulia  was  still  watching. 

"  Oh,  I  see;  you  think  there  will  be  none  left  for  you 
in  the  kitchen  ?  Here,  take  it;  there's  nothing  mean 
about  me." 

"  No,  signor;  you  may  eat  it  all.  I  do  not  like  that 
kind  of  salad.  It  does  not  enjoy  respect  in  my  coun- 
try." Giulia  whisked  out  of  the  room  with  these 
words,  or  she  would  have  heard  a  general  scream. 

"I  say,  Fay,"  said  Urbini,  *'  just  tell  those  three  aids 
of  yours  to  select  amongst  the  viands,  custards,  and 
desserts  the  ones  they  like  best,  and  we  will  take  what 
is  left.  Naturally  the  kitchen  must  have  the  first 
choice;  but  it  was  kind  in  Giulia  to  leave  us  the  salad. 
We  are  all  tremendously  grateful." 

Signor  Urbini  quietly  took  his  second  help.  Giulia's 
remark  went  the  round  of  the  tables.  Even  Mr.  Ray- 
mond looked  diverted.  There  was  a  young  widow 
present,  whom  no  one  had  as  yet  heard  laugh.  She 
was  from  New  York.  She  was  studying  the  fine  arts 
in  Milan,  and  singing  under  a  great  teacher,  Madame 


320  Stage-Struck, 

Vaneri.  Madame  Orwald,  as  she  was  called,  deigned 
to  smile  frigidly.  Her  frosty  mirth  excited  Isabelle, 
who  whispered  to  Raymond, 

"  Do  you  see  that  young  widow  ?  She  is  to  me  a 
living  ideal  of  the  luxury  of  sentiment.  She  is  in  such 
deep  mourning  that  she  drinks  black  tea,  makes 
sketches  in  crayon,  and  for  sole  amusement  plays  the 
black-key  mazurka.  Her  husband  left  her  a  fortune 
in  coal.  That  is  what  I  call  lamenting  him  in  the 
proper  manner." 

"  Isabelle,  Isabelle  !  how  can  you  ?"  Mrs.  Stanley 
tried  in  vain  to  stop  her  daughter. 

Mr.  Raymond  was  highly  interested.  "You  are  not 
far  wrong.  She  has  indeed  the  art  of  mourning  down 
to  a  fine  point.     Does  she  sing  also  ?** 

"  Yes,  a  few  Moorish  and  darkie  melodies;  but  never 
any  white  songs.  She  retires  to  her  room  immediately 
her  meals  are  over;  then  we  see  her  again  the  next 
day;  but  none  of  us  has  ever  become  well  acquainted^ 
She  is  also  very  prudish.  Next  year  she  will  learn 
*  Das  Veilchen-y  you  know  why.     But  she  is  prudish." 

"  Ah,  indeed  !     What  do  you  call  *  prudish  '  ?" 

Isabelle  rattled  on.  "  Oh,  she  never  goes  out  alone 
with  gentlemen  to  the  theatre;  she  won't  even  go  with 
them  to  sit  out  at  the  ^^// after  midnight,  or  drive  out 
on  theBastione;  and  she  refused  to  let  Lamperti  pros- 
pect with  his  stick  on  her,  to  find  out  where  her  voice 
was.  *  Why  don't  you  experiment  with  your  wife  ?' 
she  said.  *  I  doubt  not  that  the  anatomy  of  woman  is 
much  the  same  in  every  clime.'"  The  method  was 
then  explained  in  full.  "*If  my  voice  is  in  xay pancia^ 
hers  must  be  also/  " 


Stage-Struck.  321 

Raymond  could  not  speak.  He  looked  too  astound- 
ed. Isabelle  was  forced  to  stop.  There  was  to  be 
a  toast,  and  Mr.  Fay  had  been  called  upon  to  do  the 
honors.  Fay  declined.  At  last  Victor  Angel  accepted. 
He  rose  up  and  began  : 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen — " 

**  Hear,  hear  !" 

"  Give  us  '  The  President '  and  *  The  Queen.*  " 

Angel  colored.  "Excuse  me;  I  will  drink  to  Amer- 
ica, if  you  like,  but  not  to  '  The  President.'  I  do  not 
belong  to  the  Republican  party,  but  am  an  out-and- 
out  rebel.     Let  us  say  *  Democrat,'  for  short." 

There  was  a  general  murmur  of  discontent. 

"  I  say,  Mr.  Angel,  your  sentiments  don't  count,  now 
you  are  an  opera-singer."  Halden's  voice  was  slightly 
husky. 

"  Will  you  have  the  toast  *  America  '  ?" 

Cries  of  "  Yes  !"     "  No  !"     "  The  President !" 

"  That  settles  it."  Angel  sat  down  very  red.  "  La- 
dies, your  good  health,"  taking  up  his  glass. 

There  was  a  general  but  an  ominous  silence.  Fay 
arose  rather  perturbed. 

"  I  propose  a  silent  toast.  Let  each  one  drink  to  the 
country  and  to  the  one  he  loves  best.  No  names  men- 
tioned, or — " 

"  No.  Let  each  one  scream  his  toast  out  loud;  then 
there  can  be  no  quarrel  as  to  sentiment." 

This  was  hailed  with  acclamation.  All  arose  and 
drank.  The  noise  was  deafening.  Mr.  Kenniston 
arrived  in  the  midst  of  the  excitement.  Fay  cried 
out, 

"  Come  in,  Kenniston,  unless  you  have  on  so  many 


322  Stage-Struck. 

decorations  that  you  can't  get  inside  the  room.  We 
will  receive  you  gladly,  and  ask  you  to  help  in  our 
entertainment  after,  provided  you  don't  take  the 
piano  to  pieces,  as  you  once  did." 

Kenniston  promised  good  behavior,  and  the  dinner 
was  soon  ended.  There  was  a  great  bustle  in  getting 
the  room  cleared,  as  the  other  guests  began  to  arrive. 

Captain  Williams,  Mr.  Nelson,  several  Italians,  a 
Madame  Elsani  and  her  husband,  Mr.  Stepentoft  (for 
Elsani  was  the  lady's  operatic  name),  tenors,  sopranos, 
contraltos,  and  Heaven  knows  who  did  not  come. 

One  end  of  the  room  was  partitioned  off,  and  the 
evening's  entertainment  commenced  with  a  first  part 
by  the  celebrated  U.  S.  Minstrels.  The  boys,  a  double 
quartet,  filed  in,  headed  by  Fay.  All  were  as  black 
as  the  ace  of  spades.  How  they  had  ever  got  ready 
in  so  short  a  time  was  a  mystery;  but  burnt  cork  does 
not  take  long  to  apply. 

They  sang  exquisitely,  one  song  after  another,  from 
"Way  down  upon  the  Suwanee  River,"  to  "Them 
Golden  Slippers,"  One  tenor,  Lully,  particularly 
distinguished  himself.  His  voice  was  so  beautiful 
that  he  almost  redeemed  the  race.  The  jokes  by 
"  the  end-men"  were  rather  stale;  but  every  one  in 
the  world  can  laugh  a  second  or  twentieth  time  at  the 
stereotyped  fun  of  burnt-cork  artists.  There  was  a 
duet  from  "  Dolores"  between  Lully  and  Halden, 
which  set  every  one  off  into  shrieks  of  laughter.  It 
was  acted  out,  and  the  exaggerated  scene,  combined 
with  their  united  falsettos,  would  have  brought  a 
smile  to  the  face  of  Democritus  himself.  The  middle 
man  spoke  to  the  end  man,  saying. 


Stage-  Struck,  323 

"You  wake  up  in  dead  o'  night.  Wiiat  are  walls 
for?" 

"To  scratch  matches  on." 

"Correct;  go  to  the  head." 

Fay,  the  other  end-man,  in  a  stage  aside,  "All  right, 
Charlie;  but  don't  try  that  on  with  me.  You  have 
the  new  satin-papered  room." 

A  "  nigger  breakdown"  was  then  danced  by  Cheru, 
and  a  "clog"  by  Lansini.  The  part-songs  were  in- 
deed charmingly  sung.  At  the  end  of  the  first  part 
there  were  recitations,  comic  songs,  and  Madame 
Elsani  gave  an  air  from  "  Beatrice  da  Tenda."  Halden 
and  Felsini  played  a  duet;  and  midnight  found  them 
not  yet  at  the  end  of  the  programme. 

Isabelle  was  asked  to  sing.  She  chose  the  only 
thing  she  ever  attempted — the  grand  air  from  "  La 
Traviata." 

"  I  always  break  down  about  here,"  showing  a  weak 
place  in  her  execution;  "but  I  will  try." 

"  Oh,  you  may  leave  that  out,"  referring  to  the 
"  break."  "  None  of  us  exact  too  much,  and  no  one 
can  do  more  than  try  to  do  her  best." 

Isabelle  commenced.  At  the  usual  place  she  stop- 
ped, threw  her  head  up,  made  a  few  flourishes,  quietly 
skipped  the  perilous  point,  and  ended  amidst  great 
applause. 

She  explained.  "There  are  three  things  I  cannot 
do — trill,  sing  a  descending  scale,  or  phrase  properly. 
But  I  love  the  sentiment  of  that  air,  and  I  always  sing 
it.  I  begin  it  and  finish  it  well,  which,  according  to 
my  master,  is  quite  enough  for  any  one  to  expect  to 
do." 


3  24  Stage-Struck. 

Signer  Cheru  agreed  with  Isabelle.  Mr.  Raymond 
and  the  others  liked  what  she  had  done,  and  she  was 
well  satisfied.  A  young  composer  played  an  original 
piece.  It  sounded  familiar,  but  no  one  could  place 
the  reminiscence. 

Kenniston  looked  wise,  and  dropped  his  eyeglass, 
saying,  "  I  think  I  recognize  it.  *  Se  non  e  Verdi,  e 
ben  Trovatore' "  Kenniston  was  also  an  "  original  " 
composer. 

Mr.  Raymond  was  soon  introduced  to  nearly  every 
one  present.  The  formula  was  something  like  this: 
"Miss  Belvini — Mr.  Raymond."  (To  Raymond,  in  a 
stage  whisper,  "  'Belvini '  in  Italy;  '  Belvin  *  at  home 
in  Cincinnati."  "  Signorina  Paolina — Mr.  Raymond. 
('The  Paolina'  called  'Manners'  at  home.)  Madame 
Elsani,  let  me  present  Mr.  Raymond."  Another 
whisper,  "  '  Mrs.  Stepentoft '  at  home;  '  Elsani '  on  the 
boards.     That  fat  man  in  the  corner  is  Mr.  S ." 

Mr.  Raymond's  astonishment  was  great.  When  he 
got  to  Felsini,  Cherubini,  Urbini,  and  Marchmont,  he 
ventured  to  express  surprise  at  the  dodgy  way  of  hav- 
ing the  assumed  names  so  nearly  like  their  own. 
Annabel  had  his  arm,  and  they  were  discussing  the 
question. 

She  explained.  "  The  similarity  in  the  names  is  on 
account  of  the  linen — it  is  to  save  changing  the  ini- 
tials; although  this  is  not  New  York,  where  all  the 
washerwomen  get  rich  by  reading  the  memoranda 
Wall  Street  brokers  make  on  their  shirt-cuffs;  or 
Paris,  where  they  write  as  well  as  go  upon  the  stage." 

"Write!  Billets-doux r 

She  laughed.     "Be  careful!     That  is  a  confession. 


Stage-Struck.  325 

All  single  men  are  said  to  be  in  love  with  their  washer- 
women." 

He  looked  pleasantly  at  her.     "  And  I — I  am  single." 

Their  conversation  was  soon  ended.  Supper  was 
ready;  but  there  was  to  be  more  music. 

Kenniston  consented  to  play  without  "  taking  the 
piano  to  pieces."  His  talent  was  marvellous,  and  he 
was  really  the  star  of  the  evening.  How  seldom  does 
one  man  combine  talent,  cleverness,  cultivation,  and 
gentlemanliness!  Britannia  outdid  herself  when  she 
made  this  one  of  her  sons. 

Annabel  sang  quite  beautifully.  There  were  great 
hopes  of  the  young  American. 

What  a  jolly  house-warming  it  was,  to  be  sure! 
The  Italian  guests  agreed  that  the  Arnerican  "  board- 
ing" knew  how  to  enjoy  itself. 

While  the  boys  were  getting  off  the  burnt  cork,  the 
Italians  spent  their  time  making  love  to  the  belle 
Americaine. 

Amongst  the  guests  were  Captain  Williams  and  the 
handsome  Scotchman  who  had  created  such  a  sensa- 
tion at  the  court  ball;  while  "Billy's"  face  was  as 
welcome  as  a  May  morn.  Mrs.  Orwald,  the  "coal 
widow,"  unfroze,  and  took  a  turn  with  Kenniston. 
Isabelle  smiled  as  she  watched  her.  She  motioned  to 
Captain  Williams. 

"  The  Millennium  is  coming.  Look  at  the  *  coal 
widow '  dancing." 

Billy  elevated  his  eyebrows.  "Dancing!  That  is 
little  compared  with  what  she  did  yesterday."  Cap- 
tain Williams  looked  wise. 

Isabelle,  scenting  some  choice  bit  of  news,  begged 


326  St  age-Struck. 

the  captain  to  tell  her,  in  the  strictest  confidence,  what 
the  widow  had  done. 

"I  never  repeat.  I  never  talk  scandal."  He  was 
dying  to  tell. 

"  We  will  call  it  some  other  name;  but  do  tell  me." 

"  Oh,  it  is  nothing — a  mere  trifle  only.  She  went 
to  dinner  alone  with  Angel,  and  sat  in  a  baignoire  at 
the  Carcano  with  him  the  whole  evening.  Nelson  has 
always  been  preaching  her  up  as  a  paragon — a  model 
of  virtue;  her  prudery  and  so  forth.  She  never  paid  a 
visit  in  the  daytime,  to  an  American  even,  without  a 
companion  at  her  heels.  Well,  Nelson  heard  of  this, 
and  was  amazed." 

"  Why,  how  did  he  hear  of  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  in  the  most  natural  way  in  the  world.  I  told 
him,  and  waked  him  up  in  the  dead  of  night  to  do  so. 
I  rapped  at  his  door  at  half-past  twelve,  before  I  went 
to  my  room,  and  you  may  well  imagine  his  surprise. 
Of  course,  it  is  nothing  to  me;  I  have  no  earthly  in- 
terest in  the  matter;  but  Nelson  always  crowed  so 
about  her." 

"  I  am  amazed.  Do  you  care  if  I  tell  Mrs.  Man- 
ners ?     She  will  never  repeat  it  to  but  two  or  three." 

"Well" — hesitatingly — "if  you  like;  but  I  would 
not  let  it  go  any  further." 

"  Naturally.  A  poor  lone  widow!  The  last  dance  ? 
You  don't  say  !  A  lively  soirie^  is  it  not  ?  Do  come 
and  see  us  soon — any  day  after  five.  I  can't  get  over 
what  you  have  told  me  about  the  widow." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

The  following  was  the  great  day  of  Santo  Stefano, 
and  every  one  was  on  the  qui  vive  for  the  opening  of 
La  Scala.  Naturally,  each  student  had  a  ticket  some- 
where, although  even  the  walk  to  the  box-office  had 
in  many  cases  been  preceded  by  one  to  the  pawn-shop. 
Speculation  was  rife  about  the  artists,  about  the  new 
ballet,  and  the  new  tenor  Gayarre,  who  was  to  appear 
in  "  La  Favorita." 

The  Stanleys,  the  Almonts,  and  the  Manners'  had  a 
large  box  on  the  third  tier.  The  stalls  that  were  not 
filled  with  handsome  officers  were  crowded  with 
American  and  English  students,  while  the  six  tiers  of 
boxes  were  packed  with  magnificently  dressed  women, 
belonging  not  only  to  Milan,  but  to  the  principal 
cities  in  the  vicinity. 

Besides  the  throng  of  strangers,  there  were  present 
on  the  famous  "  Santo  Stefano"  all  the  old  theatre- 
goers, who  never  miss  a  first  night;  and  those  who 
go  but  on  this  occasion  were,  as  usual,  conspicuous  in 
their  habitual  places.  They  never  need  programmes: 
they  have  heard  all  the  great  singers  since  Catalani 
and  Pasta;  have  seen  all  the  dancers  since  Taglioni, 
father  and  daughter.  They  have  supped  with  Bellini 
after  success  and  failure;  they  have  seen  Verdi  many 
a  time  at  his  conductor's  place  in  the  orchestra. 
They  know  La  Scala,  and  everything  pertaining  to  it. 


328  Stage-Struck, 

by  heart.  In  nine  cases  out  of  ten  they  are  better 
musicians  than  those  in  the  band,  better  artists  than 
those  on  the  stage.  They  come  to  give  their  judg- 
ment; to  applaud  or  hiss  as  they  honestly  feel;  to 
lend  their  presence  to  the  regular  annual  opening  of 
what  to  them  is  the  entire  world — their  renowned 
opera-house.  In  short,  they  are  a  part  of  it.  They 
have  not  dined;  their  pockets  are  filled  with  chest- 
nuts. Grave,  anxious,  preoccupied,  they  are  at  the 
theatre  two  hours  before  the  opening  of  the  doors, 
waiting  the  chance  to  rush  pell-mell  into  the  lobbione. 
There  are  many  amongst  them  who,  have  not  tasted 
meat  for  a  week.  The  body  may  be  starved,  but 
never  the  soul.  They  consider  no  sacrifice  too  great 
to  enable  them  to  figure  at  the  first  night  of  La  Scala. 
No  king  is  prouder  than  one  of  these  old  and  faithful 
habitues.  No  detail  of  toilette  is  neglected:  hair  is 
pomaded;  mustache  waxed;  linen  spotless;  cravat 
tied  in  perfect  knot;  habit  guiltless  of  dust;  a  flower 
in  the  button-hole — a  rose  or  a  garofano;  gloves  of 
a  yellowish  white,  from  having  seen  the  cleaners  so 
often;  and  an  old-fashioned  opera-glass. 

This  ancient  man  stands  in  his  place  until  he  has 
seen  each  member  of  the  orchestra  come  in.  Then  he 
sits  down,  unfolds  his  handkerchief,  spreads  it  on  his 
knees,  and,  with  a  friendly  wave  of  his  fingers,  salutes 
his  brother  fossils  right  and  left,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  You  see  me.  Here  I  am.  The  opera  could  not  go  on 
were  I  not  present."  Then  the  overture  begins,  and 
the  habitui  wears  the  same  expectant,  eager  look  which 
he  has  assumed  once  a  year  for  half  a  century.  He 
forgets  the  two  hours'  waiting  outside,  his  scrimpy 


Stage-  Struck.  329 

dinner,  his  meagre  breakfast  oi polenta,  and  the  long 
uneventful  year.  He  feels  himself  a  part  of  the 
ensemble,  and  believes  that  he  is  responsible  for  the 
night's  success. 

Annabel  was  somewhat  disappointed  in  the  great 
theatre.  Its  magnificence  was  tarnished,  its  grandeur 
gloomy.  In  looking  about  she  forgot  this,  and  when 
the  curtain  went  up,  it  mattered  little  whether  she 
were  in  a  palace  or  a  barn. 

On  these  occasions  the  scene  is  extraordinary.  The 
audience  judge  everything  and  everybody  without 
appeal,  often  awarding  praise  at  one  moment  and 
blame  at  another  to  the  same  individual.  Before  a 
note  was  heard  there  was  a  shout,  and  a  pale  man  in 
morning  dress  appeared.  It  was  the  scene-painter. 
His  work  met  with  approval,  and  he  was  vociferously 
applauded.  He  was  called  for  in  the  next  act,  but  he 
was  then  hissed.  The  artists  received  loud  applause 
for  one  note,  for  another  just  the  reverse.  In  Italy 
a  singer  is  treated  without  fear  and  without  favor, 
according  to  the  artistic  merits  he  displays.  The 
greatest  reputation  cannot  save  its  possessor  from  a 
howl  of  disapproval.  Woe  to  him  if  he  make  a 
"scroch,"  utter  a  false  note,  breathe  at  the  wrong 
word,  phrase  badly,  sing  sharp,  get  flat,  drag  in  the 
finale,  be  out  of  time  or  tune,  fail  in  his  corona, 
or  even,  if  he  sing  correctly,  his  words  be  not  distinct 
or  are  accompanied  by  an  inappropriate  gesture. 

An  old  favorite  in  London  may  sing  off  the  key, 
may  violate  every  rule  of  music,  and  yet  he  is  received 
with  a  stereotyped  applause,  which  wanes  not  with 
the  century.     This  may  be  gratitude,  but  it  is  not  art. 


330  Stage-Struck, 

The  Italian  stage  is  a  better  school  for  a  singer.  No 
maestro  there  can  humbug  him  about  his  talent.  The 
public  speedily  appraise  him  at  his  proper  value,  and 
he  learns  that  art  pretenders  can  hope  for  no  mercy. 
Singing  out  of  tune,  time,  or  sentiment  is  a  personal 
insult,  demanding  an  immediate  vendetta  from  those 
whose  ears  have  been  mortally  offended. 

The  basso  on  this  occasion  had  once  been  a  favorite. 
He  now  sang  a  false  note.  Immediately  a  voice  from 
the  gallery  sang  it  for  him  as  it  should  be,  whilst  at 
the  same  time  several  others  admonished  him  to  try 
and  do  better,  or  he  would  know  immediate  regret. 
He  sang  another  false  note.  A  hundred  voices 
shouted,  ^^ Basta!  (enough  !)  Al  la  porta!  Cane^ 
cane  r     Annabel  felt  sorry  for  him. 

In  the  cavatina,  ^^  Merce  diletti  ainici,''  the  prima 
donna  missed  the  syncope.  She  was  sternly  ordered 
to  be  careful. 

The  tenor's  voice  was  slightly  foggy.  In  his  duet 
with  the  soprano  there  were  ominous  murmurs,  and  it 
would  have  gone  ill  with  him  had  not  a  friend's  voice 
from  the  gallery  shouted,  "  Let  us  pardon  him;  he  has 
just  returned  from  singing  in  London." 

The  chorus,  the  supers,  everything  and  everybody 
on  the  stage  had  to  pass  this  crucial  test. 

The  first  entr  acte  was  almost  a  relief.  Visits  were 
interchanged,  the  whole  theatre  took  a  new  aspect 
what  with  the  gayety,  the  hum  of  melodious  voices, 
and  the  beautiful  heads  peeping  from  boxes.  In 
short,  a  scene  ensued  of  such  intimacy  as  could  only 
exist  in  a  city  where  everybody  knew  everybody  else, 
where  the  opera-house  was  the  social  mart,  and  where 


Stage-Struck,  331 

most  of  the  boxes  were  occupied  by  families  to  whom 
they  have  belonged  for  more  than  a  century.  The 
Milanese,  like  most  Italians,  prefer  to  receive  the  visits 
of  their  friends  in  their  boxes  at  the  theatre  rather 
than  in  their  houses,  as  they  are  thus  enabled  to  com- 
bine their  favorite  pleasures — opera  and  society. 

Annabel  looked  about,  and  started  violently.  Her 
heart  stopped  beating.  She  saw  the  English  consul, 
and  with  him  a  person  whom  she  thought  was  Braken- 
ston.  He  turned  towards  her,  and  in  a  moment  she 
saw  her  mistake,  but  the  shock  was  none  the  less  great 
to  one  who  had  tried  to  put  him  out  of  her  life  alto- 
gether. Was  this  the  way  to  forget?  She  had  but  to 
see  a  face,  a  form,  recalling  his,  and  her  heart 
throbbed  with  the  old  violence.  She  shrank  into  a 
corner  of  the  box,  and  hid  herself  all  trembling  behind 
the  curtains.  Her  mamma  and  the  Stanleys  had  gone 
into  the  crush-room,  and  in  another  moment  she 
would  have  been  with  them,  but  on  rising  she  had 
seen  this  man. 

Being  alone,  she  hoped  no  one  would  come  to  pay 
her  a  visit.  She  was  in  no  humor  to  talk  common- 
place with  her  acquaintances,  for  she  was  thinking  of 
Brakenston.  It  would  be  sweet  to  hear  his  voice  once 
again,  although  she  knew  that  they  must  part.  Per- 
haps he  had  forgotten  her.  She  had  never  had  a 
word,  a  sign,  from  him.  He  did  not  even  care  to  see 
if  she  had  changed  her  mind.  He  was  evidently  quite 
willing  to  take  her  refusal  as  definite.  A  smile  curled 
her  lip,  and  her  heart  beat  less  painfully.  It  was  well 
so.  She  was  proud  of  herself,  of  her  firmness.  She 
had  been   right  not  to  listen  to  one  who   could   so 


332  Stage-Struck, 

soon  forget  her,  and  in  showing  him  that  though  she 
cared  for  him,  she  cared  more  for  her  art.  Her  art! 
She  was  not  yet  in  the  chrysalis;  but  listening  to  the 
voice  of  ambition,  the  wings  were  spun  which  were  to 
waft  her  on  through  the  empyrean  of  greatness.  To 
sing,  perhaps,  some  day  at  La  Scala! 

At  this  moment  the  box  door  opened,  and  Angel 
appeared.  *'  Lovely,  isn't  it  ?  They  say  that  Mariani 
has  fallen  off,  but  if  she  is  on  the  wane,  I  ask  myself 
what  must  she  have  been  in  her  prime." 

Annabel  was  composed  and  tranquil  enough  to  an- 
swer at  once,  for  Angel  was  one  of  those  practical  citi- 
zens of  the  world  whose  very  presence  quenched  sen- 
timent in  others  as  rudely  as  a  sudden  draught  extin- 
guishes the  flame  of  a  candle.  Angel  had  this  effect 
upon  Annabel.  He  was  decidedly  "anti-Brak."  She 
took  up  his  words  idly — 

"In  her  prime?  I  am  sure  I  don't  know.  She 
pleases  me  now.  I  think  I  have  never  heard  a  finer 
dramatic  singer." 

"  She  is  a  beautiful  woman,  too,  and  acts  like  a  pro- 
fessional actress.  But  the  tenor — whew!  It  seems  as 
if  I  could  do  better  myself.  By  the  way,  Verdi  is  no 
fool.  One  might  say  of  this  man  what  he  said  of  an- 
other tenor,  who  was  rehearsing  one  of  his  operas. 
You  see,  he  was  a  perfect  stick  on  the  stage.  Verdi 
got  mad,  and  told  him  to  try  and  act  a  little.  The 
man  answered,  *I  am  not  a  Modena,  but  a  singer.' 
Modena,  you  see,  was  a  great  actor.  *  Modena! ' 
screamed  Verdi;  'you  are  only  a  sausage  from 
Modena.'  I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  act.  How  many 
singers   there  are  who  can  only  sing!     By  the  way,  I 


Stage-Struck,  333 

am  getting  on  superbly  with  Trivulsi — am  quite  a 
tenor  robusto.  You  know  we  all  thought  that  I  was  a 
tenor  di  grazia.     When  I  came — " 

Annabel  interrupted,  "  I  should  think  that  com- 
posers and  librettists  would  often  lose  their  tempers 
because  the  artists  cannot  act  as  well  as  sing.  How 
seldom  the  opera-singer  knows  anything  of  his  part 
beyond  the  music." 

"Yes;  this  man,  for  instance.  But  see,  the  second 
act  is  beginning." 

Angel  quietly  ensconced  himself  in  a  corner  of  the 
box,  and  conversation  ceased  for  the  moment. 

The  opera  finished  with  little  enthusiasm.  All  were 
now  on  the  qui  vive  for  the  ballet  ''  Rolla,"  which  was 
to  be  given  for  the  first  time  in  Milan  —  not  only 
a  new  ballet,  but  a  new  danseusej  La  Zucchi  was  to 
make  her  first  appearance,  and  there  was  much 
excitement. 

The  ballet  school  of  Milan  is  as  much  a  part  of  this 
great  theatre  as  is  the  opera.  After  the  burning  of  the 
old  opera-house,  or  Teatro  Reale,  La  Scala  was  built 
on  the  site  of  the  church  of  the  same  name.  As  early 
as  1778  there  was  a  melodrama  called  "L'Europa 
Riconosciuta,"  and  a  grand  ballet,  "  The  Prisoners  of 
Cyprus."  The  regular  ballet  school  was  instituted  in 
1813,  and  since  that  time  its  progress  has  been  re- 
markable. At  present  the  school  comprises  about  one 
hundred  pupils.  The  aspirant  is  at  first  examined  to 
see  whether  the  feet  are  perfect  and  the  health  good. 
No  child  can  be  admitted  to  the  school  under  eight  or 
over  twelve  years  of  age.  The  first  three  years  they 
work  for  nothing,  and  provide  even  their  practising 


334  Stage-Struck, 

dresses.  After  this  they  are  paid  from  two  hundred 
francs  a  year  upwards,  each  year  with  a  slight  increase 
of  salary.  The  term  lasts  eight  years,  after  which 
comes  the  extra  term,  called  a  term  of  merit.  This  is 
for  three  years,  the  annual  stipend  being  nearly  four 
hundred  francs. 

During  the  last  half  of  the  eight-years'  term  they 
are  expected  to  take  part  in  the  ballets  whenever 
their  services  are  required.  The  method  is  very  per- 
fect. The  first  year  is  one  of  probation,  at  the  end  of 
which,  health  and  disposition  being  favorable,  the 
pupil  is  considered  acceptable.  Those  who  evince 
neither  willingness  nor  aptitude  are  sent  away,  and 
their  places  are  instantly  filled  from  the  hundreds  of 
poor  children  who  are  applicants.  There  are  two 
classes — the  primary  lasting  four  years,  the  second  be- 
ing the  finishing  term.  The  school  commences  at  nine 
A.M.  in  winter  and  an  hour  earlier  in  summer.  It  is 
over  at  twelve;  then  there  is  one  hour  for  the  study  of 
pantomime.  It  is  the  life  of  a  slave:  indeed,  so  hard  is 
it,  that  the  young  creatures  often  become  consump- 
tive owing  to  this,  long  before  the  first  term  is  finished. 
The  strictest  regulations  are  laid  down.  They  have 
to  eat,  drink,  walk,  and  sleep  according  to  exact  rule. 
Their  morals  are  also  looked  after.  When  they  per- 
form at  the  theatre  they  are  taken  there  and  back 
under  the  wing  of  a  duenna,  and  no  admirers  under 
any  circumstances  are  allowed.  The  entire  city  is  in- 
terested in  the  school,  especially  the  nobility,  who 
watch  the  progress  of  their  favorites  as  one  does  the 
growth  of  a  rare  and  cherished  plant  destined  some 
day  to  give  forth  choice  and  fragrant  flowers.     Their 


Stage-Struck.  •  335 

career  is  followed  with  an  interest  which  seems 
strange  when  spent  upon  these  poor  waifs,  who  pass 
one  part  of  their  lives  in  the  slums  they  call  their 
homes,  and  the  rest  amidst  the  paint  and  tinsel  of  the 
stage. 

Angel  soon  left  Annabel,  and  went  out  to  talk  with 
the  boys  about  the  evening.  When  it  was  over,  he 
came  back  to  point  out  one  of  the  prettiest  of  the 
dancers.  She  was  engaged,  it  was  said,  to  marry  a 
butcher  in  Milan. 

"Distress  is  general  amongst  the  fine^^//r,"  he  ex- 
plained. "  A  butcher!  all  of  that  prettiness  wasted! 
She  is  as  modest  as  a  daisy,  too.  We  have  been  in  a 
stage-box.  I  defy  any  one  to  say  that  those  girls  flirt 
with  the  public.  What  a  difference  from  all  other 
dancers!  I  think  Niblo's  and  the  Alhambra  might 
well  take  pattern  after  Milan." 

The  evening  finished  in  the  most  successful  way. 
The  ballet  grew  more  and  more  interesting,  and  the 
grand  transformation  scene  surpassed  anything  Anna- 
bel had  ever  witnessed.  It  was  nearly  two  o'clock 
when  they  reached  home.  The  hours  had  flown  on 
charmed  wings.  Amidst  the  souvenirs  of  the  evening 
one  thing  alone  occupied  Annabel's  mind — her  recol- 
lections of  Brak.  Would  she  ever  see  him  again  ?  and 
— had — had  he  indeed  forgotten  her? 

The  next  day  the  opera  was  loudly  discussed. 
There  was  some  enthusiasm  in  the  boarding-house, 
but  a  general  tone  of  discontent.  The  students  had 
spent  their  last  franc,  to  a  man,  for  the  Santo  Stefano. 
The  same  thing  would  have  been  done  over  again; 
but  empty  pockets  are  peculiarly  depressing,  and  the 


336  .  Stage-Struck. 

opera  not  having  been  one  of  overwhelming  satisfac- 
tion the  money  was  doubly  regretted. 

The  colony  of  "  prepared  artists"  spent  the  day  in- 
tervening until  New  Year's  day  at  the  agents.  For 
the  fiftieth  time  they  received  the  same  answer. 

''Nothing  to-day.  Ah!  come  in  a  week.  Your 
address  ?  Grazie,  we  have  it.  Should  anything  turn 
up,  you  will  certainly  hear  from  us." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

Mrs.  Almont  received  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Edmonds, 
dated  New  Year's  day.     She  wrote: 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Almont: 

"  Only  a  little  *  good-day/  with  the  enclosed 
letter,  which  came  for  you  some  days  ago.  I  send  it 
to  the  care  of  the  American  consul  at  Milan,  knowing 
that  it  must  reach  you.  We  are  all  well,  with  the 
exception  of  Eulalie,  who  coughs  terribly.  Uncle 
Johnny  always  asks  for  you;  and  Lord  Henry  never 
forgets  to  inquire  after  the  '  little  lady,'  as  he  still 
calls  your  daughter.  He  hopes  she  will  some  day 
sing  at  Covent  Garden,  if  she  insists  on  going 
upon  the  stage.  Captain  Jameson  is  the  same  good- 
natured  friend.  Oh,  there's  another  person;  you  can- 
not have  forgotten  Brakenston!  He  has  been  at 
death's  door  with  brain  fever,  but  at  last  is  able  to  be 
about.  I  fancy  that  Lallie  is  disappointed  in  him 
(this  is  very  confidential).  We  have  seen  him  but 
once,  and  he  is  now  on  the  Continent  for  a  long  time. 
I  think  him  changed.  However,  this  can  interest  you 
but  little,  so  I  will  say  good-by  for  the  present.  My 
second  floor  is  unoccupied.  Don't  forget  me,  should 
you  know  any  one  wishing  the  comforts  of  a  home 


333  Stage-Striick. 

combined  with  the  pleasures  of  family  life.     Wishing 
you  both  a  happy  New  Year, 

"  Believe  me  to  be  ever 

"  Yours  very  sincerely, 

"  Felicia  Edmonds." 

"  P.S. — Dear  Miss  Annabel.  I  write  this  P.S.,  and 
send  you  both  my  love  and  a  kiss  from  Tramp.  The 
picture  you  gave  me  is  gone.  I  think  Mr.  Brak  took 
it  the  day  after  he  came  to  see  us.  He  says  he  didn't. 
Please  send  me  another  at  once,  and  beiieve  me  to  be 
your  affectionate  little  friend,  Annie.  I  have  got  a 
cold,  and  Lallie  coughs  awfully,  and  Belle  sends  a 
good  hug.  "  Annie." 

After  reading  the  letter  carelessly,  Mrs.  Almont 
threw  it  aside.  She  spoke  of  Brak's  illness  with  the 
remark,  "  Poor  young  man!  I  never  could  quite  make 
him  out.  They  deceive  themselves.  I  do  not  think 
that  he  ever  really  cared  for  that  Eulalie." 

Annabel  made  no  comment  upon  her  mother's 
words,  but  her  heart  leapt  into  her  mouth.  He  had 
taken  her  picture;  he  had  been  ill;  he  had  suffered;  he 
had  left  London:  and  all  for  her  sake.  She  had  been 
unnecessarily  cruel;  so  perhaps  she  would  write  and 
tell  him— what?  That  she  loved  him?  He  must 
know  that.  Still,  she  could  not  be  the  first  to  speak. 
He  had  made  no  sign;  he  had  not  rebelled  against 
her  decision.  No!  Now  that  his  life  was  out  of  dan- 
ger, it  would  be  useless  to  write  after  so  many  months. 
Nothing  was  changed  in  her;  her  pride  forbade  her 
to  offer  herself  to  a  man  who  so  completely  ignored 


Stage-Struck.  339 

her  very  existence.  Then,  too,  she  had  her  art. 
Everything  looked  smiling;  in  a  few  months  she 
might  hope  to  make  her  dSut. 

The  next  mail  brought  news  of  her  father.  He  was 
out  of  danger,  and  hoped  soon  to  recommence  busi- 
ness. A  new  scheme  was  afloat,  and  millions  might 
come  of  it.  His  letter  was  so  hopeful  that  Mrs.  Al- 
mont  herself  almost  believed  in  the  possibility. 

They  sat  before  the  fire  one  cold  afternoon  in 
March,  discussing  many  things,  including  an  unfail- 
ing topic — the  impecuniosity  of  the  students.  Anna- 
bel could  scarcely  understand  why  her  mother  was  a 
pessimist  and  without  ambition. 

"  It  is  simply  explained,"  said  she.  "I  have  always 
been  poor.  I  had  every  ambition  in  my  youth,  but  I 
have  always  lacked  money  and  tact.  Without  that 
last  quality  the  greatest  talent  is  nil.  Also,  I  never 
could  button  my  dress  up  without  doing  it  wrong. 
Three  hundred  and  sixty-five  days  in  the  year  I  get 
up  and  dress  myself;  three  hundred  and  sixty-five 
times  I  will — " 

The  bell  rang. 

"Who  on  earth  can  be  coming  at  this  hour?"  said 
Annabel. 

"Mrs.  Almont,  it's  I,"  Len  said.  He  came  in 
hastily.  "Oh,  how  nice  and  comfortable!  All  alone  ? 
I  am  glad  to  see  you."  He  drew  up  a  chair.  "  Such 
a  day,  such  weather,  such  wind!  Milan  laps  over  any 
town  that  I  have  ever  seen  for  wind.  I  am  all  of  a 
shiver."  He  shook  as  he  spoke.  "  And,  please,  may 
I  poke  your  fire  ?  I  am — well,  I  believe  I  am  home- 
sick." 


340  Stage-Struck, 

"Lennie!"  Mrs.  Almont  laughed.  "Of  course. 
You  are  home-sick.  Why,  what  on  earth  has  hap- 
pened ?" 

He  was  poking  the  coals  vigorously. 

"  Happened  ?  Why,  nothing  much;  but —  We  are 
old  friends,  are  we  not  ?'* 

"I  should  think  so." 

"Do  you  remember  how  we  sang  together" — to 
Annabel — "  in  the  church-choir,  and  how  we  used  to 
talk  about  going  to  Europe  to  study  for  the  opera  ?" 

"Do  I  remember?  I  should  rather  think  I  did. 
But  you  have  something  on  your  mind  more  weighty 
than  such  a  souvenir.  What  is  it  ?'*  Annabel  was 
curious. 

"I  am  'busted.'  "     The  truth  came  out. 

"  Busted  ?  Don't  poke  my  fire  all  out,  Len.  Busted  ? 
That  means  that  you  have — " 

"  My  dear  church-choir  companion  of  the  sweet 
sunny  past,  it  means  that  I  haven't  a  red  cent,  and 
don't  know  where  to  get  one.  Worse  than  all,  I  have 
got  a  superb  scrittura,  and  cannot  beg,  borrow,  or 
steal  enough  money  to  take  me  to  the  town  where  I 
am  to  sing;  so  I  have  come  to  you." 

"To  me?  Oh!  and  we  have  not  a  penny  in  the 
house."  Mrs,  Almont's  voice  was  troubled.  "  But 
to-morrow!  The  post  may  come  to-morrow,  or  in  a 
few  days,  when  I  will  gladly  give  you  what  you 
want." 

"Too  late!  I  must  go  at  nine  to-morrow  morn- 
ing or  I  lose  my  chance." 

"Ask  the  Manners'." 

"They  haven't  a  sou  left.     Why,  the  Paolina  is  en- 


St  age-Struck.  341 

gaged  at  Warsaw,  and  Mrs.  M.  has  just  been  to  the 
bank  to  borrow  two  thousand  francs,  so  that  she  can 
go  away.     You  know  Mrs.  Manners  helps  every  one." 

"  Is  it  possible  }     And  the  others  ?" 

**  All  dead  broke.  Cheru  has  not  a  penny.  Halden 
has  just  been  to  the  Monta  di  Pieta  with  his  diamond 
ring,  and  Fay  has  not  been  paid  by  any  one  for  over 
a  month.  Will  you  believe  it  ?  Lara,  Lansini,  and 
myself  have  not  dined  for  five  days.  There!  The  truth 
must  come  out,  and  it  is  hard  enough  to  tell;  but  it  is 
the  truth.  You  know,  since  father's  Mississippi 
steamboat  blew  up  and  his  saw-mill  blew  down,  sup- 
plies from  home  have  been  short." 

"  I  am  amazed.     The  Stanleys — " 

"What!  do  you  think  that  I  ought  to  ask  them  ?" 

"Certainly" — speaking  promptly.  "You  must  go; 
you  cannot  lose  this  grand  opportunity.  We  will  ask 
together.  No!  On  second  thought,  Annabel  and  I  will 
run  in,  then  you  arrive  as  if  you  had  said  nothing  to 
us  before.     Mrs.  Stanley — " 

"What  about  Mrs.  Stanley?"  said  a  voice.  The 
door  opened  and  Isabelle  walked  in,  accompanied  by 
her  mother.  "What  is  the  matter?  Why  was  the 
name  of  Stanley  taken  in  vain  ?" 

Lennie  hesitated.  Annabel  hesitated;  then  Isabelle 
spoke. 

"  What  is  it  ?  By  the  way,  signor,  we  must  con- 
gratulate you.  Engaged  at  the  Grand  Opera  of 
Palermo.     And  you  leave  us — " 

Len  jumped  up  with  his  hand  on  his  heart.  "  I 
wish  I  could.  That  is  it.  That  is  why  your  name 
was  mentioned."     Then  the  whole  truth  came  out. 


342  Stage-Struck. 

Isabelle  answered,  "  And  to  think  that  we  have  no 
money  either  !  How  is  it  that  cheap  living  in  Milan  is 
so  dear  ?  Can  you  tell  me  what  a  green  bank  looks 
like  ?  It  is  so  long  since  I  have  seen  one.  Where 
does  our  money  go  to  ?     How — " 

"  How  ?  I  know  how  easily  enough  :  lessons,  living, 
agents  ;  singing  once  or  twice  a  year,  then  waiting 
six  months  before  another  chance  comes  ;  the  theatre 
— we  must  go  to  the  opera,  that  is  a  part  of  our  in- 
struction. But  the  thing  now  is,  how  am  I  to  get  to 
Palermo  ?" 

Isabelle  smiled.  "  Nothing  could  be  easier."  She 
took  off  her  watch  and  chain,  handing  them  to  him. 

"Oh  !"  And  a  blush  of  shame  mantled  his  cheeks. 
"  Oh,  you  are  too  kind.  But  I  never  can  consent  to 
that." 

"  Nonsense  !  Are  we  not  all  students  ;  companions 
in  misery-;  poor  as  Job's  turkeys,  all  of  the  lot  to- 
gether? We  must  help  one  another.  Would  you  not 
do  the  same  for  me  ?" 

"No,"  he  said  candidly,  "I  could  not.  My  watch 
and  chain  went  to  the  '  three  balls  '  long  ago  ;  not 
only  that,  but  other  things.  Have  you  forgotten 
Hood's  lines?  '  I  would  that  the  coats  of  my  stomach 
were  such  that  my  uncle  might  take.'  He  had  to 
undress  to  dine.  I  feared  that  I  should  have  to  walk 
to  Palermo  in  the  same  condition." 

"Oh,  shocking  !"  Isabelle  pretended  to  be  horri- 
fied.    She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

Lennie  half  rose. 

"  I  hate  to  do  such  a  thing  ;  it  looks  real  mean. 
How  good  you  are  !"    He  seized  her  hands.    "  My  own 


Stage-Struck.  543 

sister  could  not  have  been  kinder,  or  my  own  mother. 
You  are  in  earnest  ?     Shall  I  take  it  ?" 

Before  he  had  finished  speaking,  the  watch  was  in 
his  pocket. 

"  But  stop  !"  Mrs.  Almont  was  interested.  "  Can 
you  get  money  enough  on  it  ?  I  have  no  idea  what  it 
costs  to  go  to  Palermo,  or  what  the  pieta^''  she  stum- 
bled over  the  Italian  pronunciation,  "will  give  you 
on  it." 

"  It — is  it  not  gold  ?"  he  asked  half  wonderingly. 

"Gold  !"  shrieked  Isabelle.  "You  do  well  to  ask, 
things  are  so  transformed  in  this  town.  It  was  gold 
in  America ;  but  I  can't  swear  to  what  it  is  here. 
However,  if  it  is  not  enough,  I  have  still  a  ring, 
and  the  coral  on  which  I  cut  teeth  in  happy  child- 
hood." 

Lennie  buttoned  up  his  thin  jacket.  Isabelle 
noticed  it. 

"  What !  no  overcoat  with  such  a  wind  as  this  ?" 

He  lifted  his  eyebrows.  It  was  a  difficult  move. 
He  was  an  arch  blond  ;  but  he  did  it. 

"  Overcoat  !  That  was  our  dinner  the  day  before 
yesterday.     But — this  is  a  secret  between  us  five." 

"I  won't  ask  about  your  fine  pelisse." 

"  No,  I  guess  you  had  better  not.  The  day  after 
Christmas  I  had  to  make  a  raise!  You  know,  Fay  is 
awfully  good,  but  he  weakened  himself  for  that  house- 
warming.  Instead  of  letting  our  bills  run  on  until 
we  could  pay,  we  had  to  begin  an  account  at  the  end 
of  the  first  week.  I  can  tell  you  that  was  a  blow  to 
all  of  us.  It  is  enough  to  have  a  room  and  not  pay 
for  it.     I  have  not  had   the  cheek  to  come  to   the 


344  Stage-Struck. 

public  table  for  the  last  month;  neither  have  many  of 
the  others  :  which  explains  the  many  empty  seats." 

Isabelle  spoke  promptly.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say 
that  none  of  you  has  any  money  ?" 

"  Not  one  of  us.  I  have  asked  every  student 
(friends,  of  course);  and  not  only  is  there  no  money, 
but  we  have  even  had  to  sell  our  pawn-tickets.  Oh 
that  the  churches  in  America  had  raised  a  few  hun- 
dreds more !  Then  we  could  all  have  divided.  You  see 
it  is  much  longer  work  than  any  one  thinks,  this  get- 
ting engagements  ;  and,  naturally,  we  cannot  always 
snatch  bread  away  from  native  talent.  Of  course  our 
voices  are  younger,  and  fresher,  and  better,  and  we 
sing  like  artists ;  but  we  have  not  the  inside  track 
with  the  theatrical  agents,  and  it  is  a  very  hard  thing 
to  get." 

*'  I  am  amazed  !"  Mrs.  Almont  interrupted.  "  Among 
all  these  young  men  there  is  plenty  of  good-will,  but 
no  money  !     Halden,  however — he  ought  to  be  rich." 

"  He  says  that  he  has  worn  out  his  only  pair  of 
shoes  going  to  three  balls,  and  that,  too,  without 
dancing.  Why,  the  very  paving-stones  in  that  street 
leading  to  the  Monta  di  Pieta  are  worn  out,  and  the 
policemen  know  us  all  so  well  by  sight  that  they 
recognize  us  even  when  they  are  on  another  beat. 
Oh !  one  gets  used  to  this,  after  the  second  year  in 
Milan.  I  blushed  the  first  time  I  went  to  *  my  uncle's;' 
now  it  is  with  difficulty  that  I  can  turn  my  steps  in 
another  direction.  I  am  like  the  cab-horse  going  home 
to  its  stable.     You  see,  I  have  been  here  so  long." 

Isabelle  laughed,  interrupting.  "So  now  you  owe 
me  a  debt  of  gratitude.     Think,  think  of  the  disap- 


St  age-Struck.  345 

pointment  of  missing  your  favorite  promenade  ;  of 
going  to  Palermo — " 

"Great  Scot!  I  had  forgotten.  I  have  so  many- 
things  yet  to  do." 

"Packing?" 

"  Packing  !     Packing  what  ?" 

"  What !  Why,  your  trunk,  your  box,  your  linen, 
your  whatever  you  call  it." 

"My  dear  Isabelle,  my  dear  Annabel,  are  you 
joking  ?  I  have  nothing  to  pack.  Linen  !  Why,  my 
stock  of  that  article  is  on  my  back.  I  stand  in  my 
fortune,  and  the  manager  must  furnish  costumes.  I 
make  my  dibut  as  a  fisherman,  so  luckily  I  can  get  on 
with  what  he  provides;  otherwise  I  could  not  have 
accepted  the  engagement." 

Isabelle  laughed. 

"But,  good-by;  I  must  be  off.  Isabelle,  you  have 
saved  my  life." 

When  he  was  gone,  they  looked  at  each  other  in 
silence  ;  then,  after  a  moment,  Isabelle  spoke. 

"We  are  all  poor;  yes,  we  have  been  better  off. 
But  what  is  to  be  done  ?" 

"  Nothing;  nothing  but  to  wait  and  work  in  pa- 
tience," said  Annabel,  who  was  ever  courageous. 

Isabelle  continued.  "I  am  overwhelmed  at  this 
state  of  affairs.  Think  of  it!  There  are  no  less  than 
one  hundred  American  students  in  Milan  without  a 
cent,  without  an  engagement,  without  proper  food 
and  clothing,  in  the  dead  of  winter;  and  I  wonder  if 
their  people  at  home  ever  think  of  them,  or  realize 
what  a  terrible  life  they  lead.  We  are  still  well  off; 
we  have  bread — that  is  to  say,  I  had  this  a.m." 


34^  Stage-Struck, 

She  was  interrupted.     A  letter  for  Mrs.  Almont. 

The  latter  opened  it  hastily;  then  a  grayness  stole 
over  her  face.  "  Good  Heavens!"  She  handed  it  to 
Annabel.  "  Your  uncle  Jim  is  dead,  and  we  are — beg- 
gars!" 


V  ' 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

Annabel  never  knew  how  the  time  passed.  For 
the  next  few  days  they  were  too  stunned  to  realize 
the  great  catastrophe  which  had  deprived  them  of 
their  benefactor.  The  letter  announcing  his  death 
had  been  written  by  the  family  lawyer.  It  was  short 
but  comprehensive. 

"Madam: 

"  I  regret  to  inform  you  that  your  brother,  Mr. 
Treherne,  died  last  night  from  aneurism  of  the  heart. 
He  has  left  no  will;  his  property,  therefore,  goes  to 
his  daughter,  Mrs.  Emily  Duncan.  We  found  on  his 
table  a  check  to  you  for  one  hundred  dollars.  This 
check,  I  need  not  tell  you,  would  not  be  legally  valid; 
but,  per  direction  of  Mrs.  Duncan,  we  forward  it,  and 
beg  to  inform  you  that  it  will  be  cashed  on  presenta- 
tion. 

"With  assurance  of  my  deepest  respect, 

"  I  remain,  your  obedient  servant, 

"  H.  H.  Percy. 

"To  Mrs.  Hester  Almont,  March  12,  1876." 

That  was  all.  Annabel  put  a  brave  face  upon  their 
misfortune.  She  told  her  maestro  that  she  must  give 
up  her  lessons.  They  moved  from  the  boarding- 
house  to  a  tiny  apartment  which  cost  but  forty  francs 


348  Stage-Struck. 

a   month;    and  when  the    summer   came,  they  were 
struggling  as  best  they  could. 

The  little  Mrs.  Almont  earned  by  writing  kept  them 
in  bread;  and  the  kind  maestro  not  only  continued 
Annabel's  lessons  without  remuneration,  but  many 
were  the  days  on  which  he  even  insisted  that  both 
should  take  pot-luck  with  him.  The  signora  was  not 
less  kind:  she  treated  both  with  scrupulous  attention, 
and  did  all  in  her  power  to  lighten  their  cares. 

It  was  finally  decided  that  Annabel  should  endeavor 
at  once  to  sing  in  public.  Then  commenced  the  trial 
of  her  life — visiting  the  theatrical  agents.  Mrs.  Almont 
had  to  write;  so  she  went  alone  to  a  well-known  man 
in  the  Gallferia,  the  Chevalier  Benella.  He  had  an 
old-established  theatrical  agency.  He  had  been  sev- 
eral years  director  of  a  great  opera-house,  and  was 
considered  one  of  the  most  responsible  agents  in  the 
lyric  exchange. 

He  heard  her  sing,  and,  to  her  despair,  pronounced 
her  utterly  unfit  for  an  immediate  appearance.  She 
might  try  at  a  small  theatre;  but  he  could  not  advise 
it.     In  any  case,  he  had  nothing  to  offer. 

They  were  interrupted  by  a  young  Englishman,  a 
basso,  who  came  in  search  of  an  engagement.  He 
selected  an  air  from  "II  Barbiere,"  "Z^  Calunniar 
There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  wait  whilst  he 
gave  a  specimen  of  his  singing.  The  chevalier,  a  clever 
musician  and  pianist,  sat  down  to  accompany  the 
young  man.  He  sang  in  Italian,  and  did  not  pro- 
nounce badly.  As  he  came  to  the  elaborate  notes 
which  Rossini  has  so  generously  distributed  in  this 
score,  he  coolly  began  a  word,  left  it  after  the  first 


Stage-Struck,  349 

syllable,  and  lapsed  into  convenient  vowels.  Benella 
bounced  out  of  his  chair. 

"  Coso  diavolo  fate  r  he  shrieked.  "  What  sense  is 
there  in  *  Sotto  il publico  flagello  per  grand  sorte  va  a 
crepar*  ?  When  you  commence  ^  Sotto  il  pub — '  and 
finish,  beating  tv^o  notes  on  *  ah — ah — ah,'  and  then 
finish  with  '/^r,'  the  end  of  another. word,  what  can 
any  one  make  out  of  such  phrasing  as  that  ?" 

The  young  man  drew  himself  up  proudly.  "  Signor 
Benella,  I  have  this  to  say.  My  tones  are  not  good 
when  I  pronounce  these  words;  so  I  do  the  runs  on 
vowels  and  say  the  real  words  in  my  heart,  and  my 
conscience  is  satisfied." 

"Perhaps  it  may  be;  but  your  conscience  does  not 
pay,  like  one  of  the  public,  for  its  place  in  the  theatre. 
You  might  as  well  bury  the  whole  in  your  heart  and 
expect  me  to  give  it  and  you  an  engagement  as  primo 
basso.  Caro  giovane  !  go  back  to  your  master.  Your 
theory  is  undoubtedly  very  honest,  but  I  have  no  use 
for  you — not  at  present." 

John  Bull  looked  at  the  chevalier,  and  said, 
"  Thanks;  but  you  will  probably  change  your  mind. 
Here  are  my  name,  address,  and  repertoire,  I  have 
ten  operas  ready;  can  leave  Milan  at  a  moment's  no- 
tice.    Good-morning." 

He  bowed  himself  out. 

"  Leave  Milan  at  a  moment's  notice  is  the  best  thing 
he  could  do."  The  chevalier  raged.  "  There;  you 
hear  those  calm,  cool-blooded  English.  Thought  it 
in  his  heart,  indeed!  I  should  like  to  see  the  public 
that  would  accept  such  an  artist.  Why,  he  does  not 
even  know  what  he  is  singing  about." 


350  Stage-Struck, 

Annabel  felt  rather  alarmed.  She  almost  wished 
that  he  had  proved  a.treasure.  She  thought  of  visit- 
ing the  sins  of  the  fathers  upon  the  children.  They 
were  all  related  in  the  operatic  business,  although  not 
so  near  as  the  third  generation.  The  chevalier  seemed 
quite  ready  to  visit  this  young  man's  sins  upon  her 
head.  With  the  usual  Italian  characteristic,  he  stormed 
until  he  found  that  there  was  no  one  to  answer  him 
back,  and  then  he  quietly  simmered  down. 

Annabel  told  him  her  position,  their  circumstances; 
so  he  agreed  with  her  that  she  might  try  to  sing  in  a 
small  theatre  at  once.  He  gave  her  some  very  good 
advice,  pointed  out  her  qualities  and  defects,  and  then 
bade  her  good-day,  wishing  her  success.  He  told  her 
frankly  that  the  opera-house  for  which  he  furnished 
artists  was  quite  beyond  her  present  reach.  At  all 
events,  she  could  call  again. 

Annabel  went  away  heavy-hearted;  but  the  chevalier 
had  no  other  object  than  to  tell  her  the  truth.  Day  after 
day  was  passed  in  visiting  the  agencies.  She  finally 
went  to  one  in  the  Via  del  Pane.  This  was  about  the 
twentieth  door  at  which  she  had  knocked. 

There  were  numbers  of  young  women  standing  and 
sitting  in  the  little  entry.  In  a,  moment  a  door  opened, 
and  a  flaunting  black-eyed  person  passed  through.  She 
smelt  so  strong  of  patchouly  that  the  air  seemed  sud- 
denly impregnated.  She  laughed  as  she  came  from  the 
inner  sanctum,  nodded  her  head,  said  "  Ciao  n'lgrazie" 
in  a  deep  voice,  then  the  outer  door  was  opened,  and 
she  left  the  room. 

Annabel  shuddered.  She  lifted  her  head  as  a  man 
came,  following  on  the  heels  of  this  bold  apparition. 


St  age-Struck,  351 

His  hands  were  in  his  pockets,  his  hair  was  redolent 
with  grease,  his  chin  scarred,  and  his  whole  appearance 
most  unwholesome.  He  advanced  with  a  loud  voice, 
"  Cosa  ce^ 

The  young  women  trembled,  looked  at  each  other, 
then  at  him;  but  before  anyone  could  speak  he  espied 
Annabel,  and  smiled  familiarly.  She  took  courage, 
and  glanced  up  at  him. 

"  Signorina,  1  think  I  do  not  know  you.  What  can 
we  do  for  you  ?" 

"  I  wish  to  sing — in  opera." 

"  The  name  of  your  last  theatre  ?" 

"  I — I  have  never  sung  on  the  stage." 

He  recoiled.  ''^ Dibutante^  ah!  come  st  fa?  What 
is  your  voice  ?" 

"  Light  soprano." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  There  are  too  many 
already."  He  looked  again  at  her  pretty  face,  then 
placed  a  soiled  hand  on  her  shoulder.  ^^  Ferd,  come 
this  way." 

They  went  into  the  inner  room.  A  young  creature 
rushed  forward. 

"  Excuse  me,"  she  urged  breathlessly,  "  but  you  told 
me  to  come  to-day — " 

He  looked  at  her  as  if  she  were  a  dog.  **  What  is 
it  ?"     He  spoke  harshly. 

"  I — you  remember  me,  a  dancer." 

'' Premiere  r 

"  No.     I  have  never  danced  as  o,  prima  assoluta'* 

"  From  Milan  school?" 
•    "  No;  Warsaw." 

"  Humph!  the  same  thing." 


352  Stage-Struck, 

They  were  well  in  the  inner  room  by  this  time. 
Three  men,  one  young  and  very  handsome,  sat  on  a 
lounge  smoking.  They  stared  at  Annabel  and  the 
little  dancer.  As  their  eyes  fell  on  the  former,  she 
heard,  "Ah,  bellina  assai  un'  Americana  naturalmente 
quanto  ^  simpatica."     Annabel  was  motioned  to  a  chair. 

The  first  man,  who  was  evidently  the  agent,  spoke 
to  one  of  the  others,  and  then  to  the  dancer.  "  How 
long  have  you  been  in  active  dancing  ?" 

"  Three  seasons,  signore." 

"  What  theatres  ?" 

She  named  two  well-known  opera-houses. 

"  Will  you  go  far  ?  Can  you  accept  an  immediate 
engagement?" 

"  Ah,  signore,  mille  grazie^  She  shuddered.  "  I  can 
and  will  go  anywhere  so  as  to  earn  my  bread.  But  it  is 
not,  I  hope  it  is  not,  to  South  America." 

"  What  about  South  America,"  he  said  brutally. 
"We  give  ourselves  airs." 

"Oh  no,  signore;  but  you  remember  forty  ballerine 
went  to  Lima  from  here  ?  There  was  yellow-fever  in 
Lima,  and  only  three  came  back.  My  sister  was  one  of 
the  forty,  but  not  one  of  the  three." 

The  men  on  the  sofa  shouted  with  laughter.  One 
spoke  to  the  agent.  He  said,  "  Poor  thing,  rassurez  la, 
mon  vteux.  Lima  n'est  pas  necessairej  Von  trouve  la  mort 
plus  prhr 

The  agent  smiled,  but  very  gloomily.  This  little 
affair  of  Lima  was  no  joke.  The  shady  side  of  it  was 
that  the  agent  had  received  his  share  of  profit  before 
the  dancers  had  been  shipped  off.  He  turned  to  the, 
little  ballerina. 


Stage-Struck.  353 

"  Don't  worry.  You  are  not  fit  for  South  America; 
but — are  you  well  made  ?" 

She  smiled.     "  I  think  so,  signore." 

"Have  you  good  legs,  slim  ankles?" 

She  nodded. 

"  Show  them." 

"Oh,  signore!"  She  blushed,  and  looked  at  the 
three  men,  who  sat  laughing  and  leering  on  the 
sofa. 

The  agent  noticed  her  hesitation.  "  Oh,  come,  dia- 
volo,  we  are  too  modest.  This  is  carrying  things  too 
far.  We  are  not  going  to  eat  you.  Allans  "  impatiently, 
"  am  I  to  wait  all  day  ?" 

Annabel,  with  what  she  had  heard,  was  too  surprised 
either  to  move  or  to  speak.  She  dropped  her  head 
thinking  of  Lima,  and  wondering  what  questions  would 
be  put  to  her. 

The  young  dancer  reddened,  but  lifted  the  hem  of 
her  skirt. 

"Not  enough  !"  the  agent  spoke  brutally. 

She  lifted  it  a  little  higher. 

He  smiled.  "Oh,  not  bad.  And  we  hesitate  to 
show  such  pretty  legs.  Come,  my  child,  that  will  do. 
Ahem  !  Call  at — at  eleven  this  evening,  when  you 
can  show  us  a  specimen  of  your  dancing." 

"  Put  tardi  n'l  T"  She  bowed  herself  out,  murmur- 
ing her  thanks. 

Annabel  scarcely  dared  look  at  the  agent. 

He  took  up  the  thread  of  their  previous  discourse. 
"  Light  soprano.  You  are  very  pretty.  American,  of 
course?" 

This  was  not  so  bad;  nothing  surely  to  get  angry 


354  Stage-Struck, 

about.  She  smiled,  and  spoke,  "  I  think  that  I  can 
sing  well." 

"  Yes.     Your  master?" 

"  Trivulsi." 

"  Oh,  the  old  cripple  outside  of  the  Garibaldi  Gate. 
He  pronounces  you  ready  ?" 

Annabel  took  heart.  She  must  praise  herself  ;  she 
must  be  prepared  at  a  moment's  notice.  She  remem- 
bered that  she  had  been  told  to  say  she  could  sing 
any  opera  with  one  rehearsal;  perhaps  her  luck  had 
turned. 

"  I  am  quite  ready  with — with  eight  operas."  She 
spoke  proudly. 

"  Diavolo,  to  go  into  scgna  at  once  ?" 

"At  once." 

He  went  to  the  handsome  young  man,  and  they 
conversed  for  a  moment.  Then  he  returned  and  said, 
"Count  Arani  is  one  of  the  directors  of  the  Grand 
Opera  at  Pavia.  They  need  a  light  soprano.  You 
must  sing  page  rSles,'* 

"Page  rSles?    That  is—" 

"  Oh,  come,  signorina,  you  must  not  object  to  show 
your  pretty  figure.  You  are  a  real  statue.  Yes,  page 
rSles — always  charming.     *Ballo  in  Maschera' — " 

"Thanks.  I  could  not  possibly  accept."  She  turned 
to  go. 

"  Ah,  ah,  not  so  fast ;  we  may  yet  conclude  some- 
thing." 

She  looked  up  coldly.  "  Yes ;  but  not  a  page 
rdler 

**Chilosa?  We  must  commence.  But,  really,  the 
great  necessity  now  is  for  a  singer   to   replace  an- 


Stage-Struck.  355 

other  prima  donna — operas,  '  La  Sonnambula '  and 
*  Faust.'" 

"'La  Sonnambula,' — oh,  I  would  gladly  do  that; 
or 'Faust.'" 

"Yes;  but  there  is  also  the  Queen  in  the  'Hugue- 
nots,' and  the  page  role  beside.  Will  you  sing  for 
us  ?  and  we  may  perhaps  engage  you  at  once." 

The  young  count  nodded. 

They  went  to  another  room.  The  agent  begged 
one  of  the  men  to  play,  as  Annabel  did  not  wish  to 
be  at  a  disadvantage  by  accompanying  herself  the 
first  time.  The  count  smiled,  and  offered  himself  to 
be  pianist ;  then  he  ran  his  fingers  lightly  over  the 
keys,  and  looked  tenderly  at  her  as  she  approached 
the  instrument.  She  sang  with  all  her  maestria  and 
courage.  Her  natural  taste,  beautiful  voice,  and  cor- 
rect method  really  charmed  her  hearers.  After  three 
consecutive  airs  she  was  told  that  was  enough. 

^^Ch^re  enfant,  we  have  decided  to  engage  you. 
Now,  let  us  conclude  terms  at  once,  as  there  is  no 
time  to  lose.  Of  course,  you  know  that  you  must 
furnish  the  basso  vestario^  which  means  hose,  slippers, 
tights,  under-tights,  —  fleshings,  of  course;  besides 
your  own  stage-jewels,  with  a  tiara  when  you  do  the 
role  of  a  queen  ;  your  own  wigs,  your  necklaces,  and 
all  the  little  things.  We  provide  the  alto  vestario, 
which  comprises  the  costumes,  and  sometimes  the 
shoes  which  accompany  a  character  dress.  The  rdle 
of  page  always  belongs  to  the  light  soprano,  so  you 
cannot  refuse  to  sing  it ;  but  you  have  this  chance,  that 
the  '  Ballo '  may  not  be  given,  and  you  will  have  an 
opportunity  to  make  a  great  hit.      Now  about  terms." 


356  Stage-Struck, 

For  once  Annabel  was  glad  that  her  mother  was 
not  with  her.  She  would  be  so  proud  to  go  home 
"an  engaged  artist." 

"About  terms,"  he  repeated.  "We  offer  you  all 
this,  one  of  the  first  theatres  in  Italy,  splendid  roles. 
Now,  how  much  are  you  prepared  to  pay  us  to  make 
your  debut  V* 

"  How  much  will — will  I  pay  you  to  sing  ?"  She 
repeated  his  words  mechanically,  scarcely  believing 
her  senses. 

"Yes — yes,  diavolo.  You  did  not  expect  that  I 
should  pay  you,  a  debutante,  perhaps  to  spoil  my 
opera  ?"     His  voice  rose. 

"  Why,  certainly  I  expected  you  to  pay  me." 

He  burst  into  a  loud  laugh.  Then  he  began. 
"  Cornel  A  rich  American,  you  go  on  the  stage  from 
caprice.  You  have  a  pretty  voice,  but  more  personal 
beauty.  You  come  to  take  the  bread  out  of  the 
mouths  of  honest  native  talent,  who  are  old  tried 
artists.  Look  at  these  books."  He  violently  opened 
some  registers.  "  There  are  a  thousand  prima  donnas 
in  Milan,  all  ready  to  sing,  waiting  for  engagements, 
and  many  who  will  pay  me  to  get  them  before  a  good 
public.  And  you — you — "  He  choked  through  such 
rapid  articulation.  "  Look  at  this  alphabetical  list. 
A,  thirty-five  A's  ;  B,  as  many  B's  ;  more  C's,  and  so 
on  to  Z.  No  ;  no  quest  e  fin  troppo''  He  wiped  his 
face  vigorously  with  a  silk  handkerchief,  and  sat 
down. 

She  was  horrified.  A  thousand  disengaged  prima 
donnas  in  Milan,  amongst  them  great  artists  !  What 
chance  had  she  ?    She  turned  gravely  to  the  agent. 


St  age-Struck,  357 

"  I  do  not  doubt  your  word  ;  but  I  am  not  a  rich 
American.  I — I  wish  to  sing  for  my  living.  I  can- 
not pay  to  make  a  debut.  Good-day,  and  thanks." 
She  turned  away,  feeling  utterly  crushed  and  heart- 
sick. 

The  count  rose.     He  spoke  to  the  agent. 

The  latter  expostulated  ;  then  he  tried  again.  ^^  BenCy 
bene.  At  least,  if  you  wish  to  try  you  may  sing  for 
nothing,  and  we  will  give  you  a  benefit.  That  is  all. 
Do  you  accept?" 

She  reflected  a  moment.     "  Yes." 

"Yes  ?     Will  you  sign  the  contract  now?" 

"  No.  Come  to  me  before  six  this  evening,  and  we 
can  conclude  arrangements." 

"Come!     The  signorina  jests.      I  go  to  her  ?" 

"Yes  ;  to  me."  She  gave  her  address.  "You  may 
count  upon  me.  Addio^  stgnore.''  She  thanked  him 
politely,  and  walked  towards  the  door. 

He  stared  after  her  an  instant,  then  jumped  up. 
Perhaps  it  had  entered  his  head  that  he  was  speaking 
to  a  lady.  The  count  also  rose,  and  opened  the  door 
for  her.  He  murmured  a  soft  a  revederla,  and  bowed 
low  as  she  passed  through.  She  thanked  him  with  a 
distant  inclination  and  a  grave  smile. 

As  she  walked  home,  she  thought  it  all  over.  Her 
last  visit  to  the  agents  had  been  successful.  She  was 
an  engaged  artist.  What  would  her  mother  say  ?  At 
any  rate,  she  was  not  going  to  pay  to  sing,  and  the 
benefit  might  bring  something.  Once  the  disgrace  of 
being  a  dibutante  was  over,  she  might  hope  to  get  on 
in  her  career.  Perhaps  it  was  not  so  bad  a  chance 
after  all,  and  it  had  not  come  too  soon.     They  were 


358  Stage-Struck. 

already  nearly  at  the  end  of  their  resources.  She 
pondered  over  the  things  she  would  be  obliged  to 
furnish.  She  even  half  laughed  as  she  said  "  wig." 
Wigs,  with  her  splendid  hair!  No,  no;  she  would  not 
be  a  tow,  but  a  real  blonde  Margherita.  What  a  sav- 
ing that  would  be! — golden  hair  was  so  expensive. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

Annabel  signed  her  scrittura  that  evening,  as  her 
mother  agreed  with  her  that  she  had  better  accept  the 
opening  offered.  This  was  October,  and  the  annual 
fairs  were  being  held  in  the  provinces.  At  this  time 
of  the  year  there  was  always  a  short  opera  season,  and 
if  she  could  make  a  successful  d3ut  now,  she  might 
hope  for  an  engagement  for  the  ensuing  carnival, 
when  surely  she  would  be  paid  something.  At  least, 
she  would  have  faced  the  footlights,  and  have  acquired 
stage  confidence. 

The  maestro  was  pleased,  for  the  Pavia  theatre  was 
important;  and,  as  Isabelle  said  laughingly,  it  was  so 
near  Milan,  that  she  could  walk  home  or  come  back 
in  the  famous  canal-boat,  called  El  Barchett  by  the 
Milanese. 

They  hurried  off  to  the  little  town,  and  Annabel 
found  herself  in  the  midst  of  a  motley  throng. 

To  add  to  the  excitement,  she  was  informed  that 
the  season  would  commence  with  "Faust,"  and  not 
"  Sonnambula,"  which  she  had  studied  most.  There 
was  no  help  for  it.  "  Faust"  it  was  to  be.  There 
were  messages  to  the  maestro,  talks  and  confabs;  but 
of  no  avail.  "  Faust"  it  was.  She  was  seated  in  the 
wings,  when  Captain  Williams,  the  English  meloma- 
niac,  whom  she  had  met  at  the  court-ball,  came  up. 


360  Stage-Struck, 

"  What  a  coincidence!"  he  said.  "  Let  me  intro- 
duce to  you  Mephistopheles,  Signor  Felice  Feleane,  a 
son  of  a  general  in  the  British  army.  Music  mad,  a 
perfect  artist;  called  Felix  Felan  in  English,  and  my 
very,  very  good  friend. 

The  captain  was  always  on  hand  at  any  first  per- 
formance. He  was  kind-hearted,  attentive,  and  the 
artists  felt  encouraged  to  do  their  best  when  he  was 
one  of  the  audience.  He  was  au  fait  of  a  theatre,  from 
the  box  office  to  the  stage  door.  So  nothing  under 
the  sun  escaped  his  practised  eye.  No  intrigue  but 
its  innermost  germs  were  known  to  him;  no  failure 
but  he  deplored ;  no  success  at  which  he  had  not  sac- 
rificed various  pairs  of  gloves. 

The  rain  poured  in  torrents.  The  theatre  was  dark, 
cold,  and  uncomfortable.  They  had  rehearsed  for  a 
week,  which  had  been  very  fortunate  for  Annabel. 
This  was  the  last  rehearsal,  and  each  artist  was  on  the 
tiptoe  of  excitement  over  the  grand  event.  Felice 
Feleane  seated  himself  beside  Annabel. 

"  I  hope  to  Heaven  that  the  trap  will  work  properly. 
I  have  given  three  men  each  an  extra  franc,  beside 
furnishing  a  bottle  of  oil  for  them  to  grease  it  well. 
Everything  depends  upon  a  good  entrance.  I  never 
shall  forget  Faure,  the  great  French  artist.  It  was 
his  opening  night  of  the  season  at  Covent  Garden,  you 
know,  and  he  nearly  broke  his  neck  coming  through 
the  trap.  Fancy  what  an  upset  to  an  artist  !  Before 
he  could  regain  his  balance,  he  went  through  gymnas- 
tics unknown  even  to  the  Lauris.  I  trembled,  think- 
ing such  a  fate  might  some  day  be  mine,  so  I  have  pro- 
vided much  oil  and  many  francs." 


St  age-Struck,  361 

She  laughed.  "  Your  money  has  been  well  invested. 
There  should  be  no  danger." 

Then  they  were  both  called  to  go  over  Valentine's 
death  scene.  The  rehearsal  went  so  badly  that,  as 
usual,  every  one  predicted  a  fine  performance.  There 
was  to  be  no  prova  the  day  of  the  first  representation, 
and  Annabel  was  indeed  thankful.  She  was  simply 
exhausted.  They  had  worked  night  and  day.  She 
had  been  in  draughts  and  out,  in  cold  theatres;  and 
running  about  in  the  rain;  besides  rehearsing  twice  a 
day  from  eleven  in  the  morning  until  sometimes  long 
after  midnight.  She  was  nervous,  anxious,  and  de- 
pressed. She  seldom  had  a  chance  of  eating  a  proper 
meal,  and  on  the  rare  occasions  when  she  had  time, 
she  was  too  tired.  At  one  o'clock  on  the  day  of  the 
performance,  to  her  amazement  she  was  called  upon 
to  rehearse.  Valentine  had  been  rejected  by  the 
directors,  and  a  new  baritone  had  offered  to  sing  the 
part  at  a  moment's  notice. 

This  was  the  "  last  straw."  She  had  been  too  pre- 
occupied to  think  of  sleep,  but  she  dragged  herself  to 
the  theatre,  and  they  went  through  the  whole  opera 
again.  At  five  o'clock  she  reached  home,  thoroughly 
fagged. 

They  were  at  a  miserable  little  hotel,  colder  than  a 
barn,  with  stone  walls,  stone  floors,  cold  madonnas 
and  martyred  saints  shivering  from  the  ceilings,  sans 
fire,  sans  comfort,  sans  everything.  Her  mother  had 
a  spirit-lamp,  and  she  made  some  tea.  Before  Anna- 
bel had  swallowed  it,  there  was  a  violent  knocking  at 
the  door.     She  was  furious. 

"If  it  is  another  rehearsal,  I  will  not  go.  I  am  near- 


362  Stage-Struck. 

ly  dead.  If  I  cannot  get  an  hour's  rest  before  the 
performance,  it  will  be  impossible  to  sing.  I  am  tired, 
nervous,  ill.     I — " 

She  burst  into  tears.  The  knocking  continued. 
Her  mother  took  her  in  her  arms. 

"You  great  baby!"  she  said,  "nothing  shall  disturb 
you.  Keep  quiet  and  try  to  sleep;  if  not,  I  will  forget 
that  you  are  eighteen,  and  treat  you  as  I  did  when 
you  were  three.  There!  do  you  hear?  Now  be  quiet. 
I  will  go  to  the  door." 

Annabel  half  laughed,  half  sobbed.  She  kissed  her 
mother,  and  sank  back  on  her  pillow  utterly  exhausted. 

Mrs.  Almont  went  outside,  and  was  confronted  with 
a  tall  man  dressed  in  sombre  garments.  A  crepe 
band  garnished  his  high  hat;  his  gloves  were  irre- 
proachable; his  coat  was  tightly  buttoned;  his  eyes 
were  wicked,  and  his  general  aspect  was  most  impos- 
ing and  unctuous.  She  scarcely  knew  how  to  address 
him.     He  saved  her  the  trouble. 

"  I  have  come  to  have  a  few  words  with  the  Signo- 
rina  Almonti — ahem!  your  daugher,  I  presume?"  He 
bowed. 

"  She  is  too  tired  to  see  you.  Will  you  speak  with 
me  ?     Come;"  and  she  led  the  way  to  her  own  room. 

"As  I  am  a  man  of  business,  it  may  be  as  well  to 
state  at  once  the  reason  of  my  visit.  I  have  heard  all 
the  rehearsals,  for  *  Faust,'  and  am  sorry  to  tell  you 
that  I  fear  a  failure  for  your  daughter.  She  has  qual- 
ities, but — 2.  fiasco  is  imminent." 

Mrs.  Almont  was  too  terrified  to  express  indigna- 
tion. Her  only  dread  was  lest  Annabel,  who  was  in 
the  adjacent  chamber,  should  hear  him. 


St  age-Struck.  363 

"Sh!" — putting  her  hand  to  her  lips.  "What  have 
you  to  say  ?  Speak  !  I — I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  why 
you  come  here,  and  at  such  an  hour.  Pray  tell  me  the 
real  object  of  your  visit  at  once." 

He  seated  himself,  and  spoke  in  excellent  English. 
"  My  name  is  Marsowan.  I  represent  the  clandestine 
anonymous  society  agency,  Dei  Quattri  Ve.ntt,  to  as- 
sure success  or  failure  to  artists.  We  are  bound,  upon 
receiving  a  certain  sum  of  money,  to  make  them  a 
success.  Without  it —  The  public  is  ignorant,  and 
only  needs  the  proper  impetus  to  recognize  the  legiti- 
mate qualities  of  an  artist;  but,  of  course,  without 
remuneration  we  are  not  bound  to  instruct  the  public. 
I  now  tell  you  that  the  Margherita  of  this  evening  will 
fail  for  two  reasons.  Firstly,"  holding  up  one  finger, 
"she  has  taken  the  engagement  from  the  ex-mistress 
of  Count  Arani,  who  naturally  has  organized  a  cabal 
against  her.  Secondly,"  and  he  held  up  a  second  fin- 
ger, "  she  is  ill  and  nervous,  so  will  not  be  able  to  do 
herself  justice.  You  see  I  speak  unreservedly.  For 
the  sum  of  a  thousand  francs  I  guarantee  her  the 
greatest  success  of  the  season,  a  dozen  recalls,  and  a 
brilliant  dSut.  Otherwise,  although  I  personally  shall 
not  act  against  her,  still  I  am  bound  to  say  that  the 
principal  member  of  our  society  is  a  friend  of  Count 
Arani's  bella — " 

"  But,  signore,  a  thousand  francs!  The  sum  is  enor- 
mous!"    Mrs.  Almont  looked  aghast. 

"Madame  forgets  my  great  responsibilities.  This 
evening  fifty  faithful  ones  must  be  there  to  applaud 
and  crush  the  counter-cabal.  Besides  this,  I  shall 
have  to  demonstrate  to  the  critics  that  it  will  be  more 


364  Stage-Struck, 

to  their  advantage  to  praise  than  to  blame.  In  this 
sum  is  included  a  telegram  to  the  Milan  journals,  an- 
nouncing the  stupendous  triumph  of  the  Signorina 
Almonti."  He  then  cast  his  eyes  demurely  to  the 
ground. 

Mrs.  Almont  felt  that  he  was  telling  her  the  truth, 
in  so  far  that  his  society  could  make  or  mar  her  daugh- 
ter's prospects.  She  resolved  to  pay  blackmail;  but 
she  had  not  the  sum  he  required. 

"  Signore,  your  society  does  honor  to  any  country," 
she  said.  "  Your  proposal  is  a  generous  one.  There  is 
only  one  difficulty  in  accepting  your  terms:  I  don't 
possess  a  thousand  francs." 

His  countenance  fell,  and  his  insinuating  smile  van- 
ished. "  It  is  a  pity.  I  had  also  intended  a  gracious 
surprise.  The  signora  would  have  been  dragged  home 
in  a  carriage  by  enthusiasts  after  her  performance, 
and  for  this  I  should  have  made  no  extra  charge." 
There  was  a  pause.  At  length  he  said,  "  What  will  the 
signora  give  ?" 

Mrs.  Almont  hesitated.  At  length  she  said,  "  If  you 
have  any  heart — " 

He  placed  a  black-gloved  finger  upon  his  breast, 
and  bowed  deprecatingly. 

"■  Will  you  take  all  that  I  can  give  you,  and  do  your 
best  for  my  poor  child  ?" 

^'•QuafttoT'  he  asked,  with  elegant  frigidity. 

She  drew  out  of  her  purse  two  hundred  francs.  He 
looked  at  it,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

^'E pocol'*  he  said;  "but  if  you  have  no  more,  I  ac- 
cept it  in  the  name  of  our  society." 

As  he  pocketed  the  money,  a  suspicion  dawned  upon 


Stage-Struck.  365 

Mrs.  Almont.  "  But  how  do  I  know,"  she  asked, 
"that  you  will  keep  faith  with  me?" 

"  Signora,  I  am  known  to  Pavia.  If  you  doubt  me, 
call  the  landlord  of  this  hotel,  and  he  will  tell  you 
that  I  am  a  cavaliere  of  honor.  You  have  my  word, 
which  is  as  good  as  my  bond."  And  he  bowed  him- 
self out  with  a  wave  of  his  black-gloved  hand,  saying, 
^'- Addio  a  sta  sera" 

Mrs.  Almont  returned  to  Annabel's  room.  She 
found  her  lying  upon  an  extraordinary  piece  of  furni- 
ture which  did  duty  for  a  sofa.  She  looked  up. 
"  What  was  it,  mamma  ?" 

Mrs.  Almont  determined  not  to  tell  her  what  had 
occurred.  '^A — a  message  from  Captain  Billy  about 
— oh!  nothing  of  consequence;  only  you  must  not 
be  frightened.     He  predicts  a  great  success." 

"Oh,  mamma,  I  am  so  glad!  Did  he  send  clear  here 
to  tell  you?     How  kind!" 

"  Yes,  dear.  Besides,  every  one  expects  great  things. 
Remember,  the  whole  colony  will  be  present;  even  the 
great  critic  Kenniston  has  promised  to  come." 

She  looked  up  with  pride.  "I  shall  not  fail,  al- 
though I  am  so  tired  that  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  beat- 
en.    What  time  is  it  ?" 

"Half-past  five." 

"  Is  everything  all  right  ? — the  jewels,  the  glass,  the 
bouquet  for  Siebel,  the  book  for  the  church  scene  ?" 

"  Everything,  dear.  Do  try  and  be  quiet.  I  shan't 
answer  if  you  speak — not  another  word.  At  half-past 
seven  I  shall  come  in  to  take  you  to  the  theatre.  Un- 
less the  house  take  fire,  you  shall  not  be  disturbed 
before  then." 


366  Stage-Struck. 

Mrs.  Almont  covered  her  with  a  rug.  After  seven 
her  mother  reappeared.  Annabel  was  calmer.  She 
had  braced  herself  to  the  ordeal.  A  fiacre  was  at  the 
door,  and  they  drove  to  the  theatre. 


r" 


CHAPTER  XL. 

Pavia  is  one  of  the  most  celebrated  towns  in  Italy, 
and  well  deserves  its  ancient  name.  Like  all  Italian 
cities,  it  is  interesting.  It  has  an  old  castle,  a  grand 
Faubourg,  a  marble  bridge,  an  enormous  although 
unfinished  cathedral,  theatres,  and  the  renowned 
college  where  young  men  come  from  all  parts  of  the 
world  to  study  the  science  of  medicine.  There  are 
botanical  gardens,  and  of  course  one  street  where 
everybody  walks.  Pavia  is  modernized  but  little. 
Every  paving-stone  seems  to  awaken  the  slumbering 
echoes  of  its  famous  past. 

The  evening  was  clear  and  charming,  and  to  reach 
the  theatre  they  were  obliged  to  pass  through  the 
principal  streets  of  the  city.  The  theatre  was  not 
strictly  beautiful,  but  it  was  gay.  They  went  through 
a  mercato  or  market,  and  saw  a  number  of  medical 
students  already  gathered  at  the  front  entrance  of  the 
opera-house,  waiting  for  the  opening. 

Annabel,  half  dead  with  fear,  came  trembling  upon 
the  stage.  The  house  was  packed;  the  audience  un- 
ruly, cold,  and  indifferent.  She  felt  this  at  once. 
Her  few  notes  in  the  first  phrase,  '^  No,  signor^  lo  non 
son  damigella  ni  bella,'  were  sung  with  exquisite  sweet 
ness. 

There  was  a  burst  of  applause,  intermingled  with 
ominous  hisses.     She  felt  her  blood  run  cold.     Why 


368  Stage-Struck, 

was  she  hissed  ?  Perhaps  a  few  thought  that  the  ap- 
plause had  been  too  soon.  She  made  her  exit  in  dead 
silence.  The  scene  of  the  King  of  Thule,  in  the  third 
act,  and  the  jewel-song,  would  be  the  critical  test. 
She  was  just  going  on,  when  she  espied  Mephisto. 

He  had  a  mournful  expression.  "  Dear  Margherita," 
he  said,  "  the  trap  worked  so  well  that  my  doublet 
was  torn,  my  neck  nearly  broken,  and  my  whole  body 
as  shocked  as  if  I  had  been  blown  up  by  a  Mississippi 
steamboat.  The  trap  worked  too  well;  those  fiends 
fairly  shot  me  up  like  a  ball  from  a  cannon.  Great — 
Ah!"  He  tore  away.  The  call-boy  shouted,  Mephi- 
sto.    "  I  must  be  ready  with  the  jewel-box." 

On  he  went,  and  the  first  thing  Margherita  heard 
were  the  minor  notes  beginning  the  King  of  Thule. 
She  got  well  through  the  first  part;  then  there  were 
hisses.  Why  ?  She  was  not  afraid,  but  what  an 
excitement!  Things  grew  so  bad  that  she  was  fairly 
crushed.  For  a  second  she  paused,  and,  lifting  her 
head,  proudly  sang — 

"Son  la  figlia  d'un  re  ognun  dee  salutartni." 

The  applause  was  deafening.  The  singing  quality 
of  her  young  voice,  her  rare  beauty  and  grace,  won 
all  hearts.  The  act  ended  with  rapturous  recalls,  one 
after  another.  Mrs.  Almont  was  delighted;  it  was 
really  so  genuine  a  success  that  she  had  forgotten 
Signor  Marsowan.  He  came  at  the  last  act  to  con- 
gratulate Mrs.  Almont.  She  had  a  momentary  feel- 
ing of  disgust.     He  narrowly  watched  her. 

*'  I  told  you  that  we  would  make  it  a  success,"  he 
said.      "  I  think  we  can  safely  leave  the  rest  to  the 


Stage-Struck.  369 

public.  Pray  introduce  me  to  Margherita;  I  see  she 
is  coming  this  way." 

Annabel  accepted  his  congratulations.  She  was  be- 
side herself  with  delight. 

The  opera  finished  triumphantly.  She  did  every- 
thing con  amore.  The  prison  trio  was  thrice  sung. 
The  recalls  were  unbounded,  and  her  heart  swelled 
with  pride.  She  had  never  anticipated  such  a  success. 
As  she  reached  the  stage-door  a  stranger  held  out  his 
hand. 

"  May  I  add  my  congratulations?  Your  success  has 
been  the  greatest  pleasure  known  to  me  for  many  a 
day." 

It  was  Mr.  Randolph.  He  was  smiling  kindly,  but 
his  face  otherwise  was  very  grave.  With  that  one 
exception,  he  was  unchanged  since  the  steamer.  She 
saw  that  he  was  also  dressed  in  deep  mourning. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

During  the  rest  of  the  season  Annabel  and  her 
mother  retained  their  rooms  at  the  hotel,  which  was 
cheaper  than  taking  an  apartment.  Even  with  the 
strictest  economy  their  funds  were  fast  disappearing, 
and  they  saw  the  moment  approaching  when  they 
would  be  entirely  without  money.  They  would  have 
to  try  and  borrow  ;  but  from  whom  ? 

Mrs.  Almont  was  obliged  to  tell  Annabel  of  Signer 
Marsowan's  visit,  and  .what  the  success  of  the  first 
night  had  cost  them. 

She  was  greatly  mortified,  but  she  was  consoled  with 
the  thought  that  she  must  really  have  made  a  good 
impression  on  the  public  of  Pavia,  for  she  was  not 
only  "  confirmed  "  until  the  end  of  the  season,  but  the 
management  offered  her  a  small  sum  for  her  benefit 
night.  This  was  so  unusual  a  thing  that  she  could 
afford  to  think  no  more  of  the  clandestine  anonymous 
agency,  Dei  Quattri  Venti.  She  never  saw  Marsowan 
again;  he  had  evidently  gone  to  find  new  victims. 
She  laughed  with  her  mother,  yet  they  were  too  poor 
not  to  regret  the  two  hundred  francs. 

Nearly  all  her  friends  at  Milan  rejoiced  at  her  suc- 
cess.    There  were  a  few  jealous  ones  in  the  colony, 
but  little  was   heard   beyond  general  praise   of  the  ; 
dibut. 

Annabel's   opera  season  was   finished.     They   re- 


Stage-Struck,  371 

turned  to  Milan,  where  Mr.  Randolph  came  to  see 
them.  She  felt  that  some  unusual  thing  had  hap- 
pened. They  spoke  of  the  steamer,  of  the  different 
compagnons  de  voyage^  and  especially  of  the  major.  To 
Annabel's  surprise,  Mr.  Randolph  said  that  he  had 
been  to  America  since  the  last  trip,  and  that  this  time 
his  visit  to  Europe  had  been  a  particularly  sad  one. 
Mrs.  Almont  hazarded  a  word  which  at  once  opened 
the  direct  road  to  this  confidence. 

"  I  am  in  mourning  for  my  half-sister,"  he  said, 
"  Miss  Annabel,  you  remember  I  once  promised  to  tell 
you  about  an  artist,  a — a  singer  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  responded  breathlessly. 

"It  was  of  her  that  I  spoke.  When  I  crossed  in  the 
Arigona  with  you,  I  came  here  to  look  for  her.  She 
had  left  her  family  and  friends  a  long  time  without 
news.  She  had  sung  here  and  there,  and  at  first  with 
great  success.  On  my  arrival  in  Europe,  I  discovered 
that  she  had  been  betrayed  and  was  living  with  her 
lover.  I  was  so  shocked  that  I  tried  to  blot  her  very 
existence  from  my  memory.  When  I  returned  to  Eu- 
rope a  few  months  ago  I  felt  that  I  had  perhaps  been 
hard  and  cruel.  I  could  not  bear  the  thought  that 
my  sister  might  be  deserted  and  living  in  penury  and 
shame,  so  I  came  down  to  Italy  and  learned  that  she 
was  at  Naples  when  last  heard  of.  I  went  there. 
She  was  already  buried.  They  took  me  to  the  pau- 
pers* cemetery  and  showed  me  a  mound,  beneath 
which  she  had  been  thrown,  with  quicklime  on  her 
face,  like  other  beggars.  She  had  been  abandoned  by 
her  lover.  After  a  bitter  struggle  with  misery  and 
shame,  she  fell  sick,  and  had  died  in  the  public  hospi- 


372  Stage-Struck. 

tal;  and  I  could  not  even  get  back  her  body,  for  it 
was  unrecognizable." 

Mr.  Randolph  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  for  a 
moment.  What  consolation  could  they  offer?  He 
continued  : 

"As  to  this  child,  when  I  met  her  and  she  told  me 
that  she  was  coming  to  Europe  to  learn  to  be  an 
opera-singer,  I  had  not  the  heart  to  tell  her  the  truth 
about  my  sister.  I  tried  to  dissuade  her.  I  told  her 
all  was  not  couleur  de  rose;  but  in  vain.  You  know 
now  what  reason  I  had  to  speak  of  the  stage." 

"Mr.  Randolph,"  Annabel  cried,  "it  does  indeed 
come  home  to  us.  I  cannot  tell  how  sorry  I  am  for 
her,  poor  girl." 

"  Yes,  it  was  a  sad  fate.  But  I  have  not  come  here 
to  speak  of  her,  but  of  you,  Mrs.  Almont;"  and  he 
turned  towards  her.  "  I  have  heard  your  history  and 
of  the  loss  of  your  only  stay.  I  beg  you,  in  Heaven's 
name,  to  let  me  help  you  !  This  is  no  fitting 
home  for  such  as  you  and  your  daughter.  I  remem- 
ber what  befell  my  sister,  and  I  can't  get  over  the 
thought  that  she, hadn't  one  friend  in  her  need — not 
even  her  own  brother.  I  have  neither  kith  nor  kin  to 
claim  anything,  and  I  wish  you  to  let  me  do  for  your 
daughter  as  I  should  have  done  for  my  poor  sister." 

"No,  no;  you  are  too  kind.  Thanks,  a  thousand 
times;  but  I —    You  forget  she  has  a  father." 

"Dear  madam,  he  is  but  that  in  name.  I  know  all: 
he  is  ill  and  unfortunate.  I  wish  you  to  accept  my 
aid;  and  when  you  need  me,  call  on  me  further." 

Mrs.  Almont  was  overcome. 

"God  has  sent  you.     We  were  without  the  where- 


Stage-Struck.  373 

withal  to  buy  even  our  bread  for  to-morrow.  Still, 
I  will  accept  it  only  as  a  loan.  You  forget  that  obli- 
gation sometimes  weighs  heavier  than  want." 

''Madam!  this  from  you?  I  had  hoped  that  you 
would  look  upon  me  as  a  friend,  yet  this  is  your  an- 
swer." 

"No,  no.  I  did  not  mean  in  your  case;  but  you 
can  understand  the  extreme  delicacy  of  our  position. 
I_we— " 

"I  am  a  rough  man,  Mrs.  Almont,  but  there  is  no 
question  of  delicacy  with  one  American  and  another, 
when  both  are  in  a  foreign  land;  one  has  plenty,  and 
the  other  is  without  bread.  For  your  daughter's 
sake." 

"You  are  right;  for  her  sake  I  will  accept.  God 
bless  you!" 

"  I  said  to  myself:  '  If  I  can  do  no  good  in  this 
world,  my  life  is  ended.  Perhaps  I  can  save  one  from 
her  fate.  Perhaps — perhaps  a  little  timely  aid  may 
avert  a  catastrophe.'  Now,  I  ask  one  thing:  drop  me 
a  line  now  and  then  to  let  me  know  how  you're  com- 
ing on.  I  leave  for  Paris  to-night,  and  will  be  hon- 
ored to  hear  from  you.  Remember,  also,  that  this 
places  you  under  no  obligation  to  me;  on  the  con- 
trary, I  am  the  obliged.  My  address  is,  American  and 
Colonial  Exchange,  London  or  Paris,  and  I  shall  ex- 
pect news  of  you.  Should  no  word  come,  do  not  hesi- 
tate to  write  when  I  can  be  of  any  service.  Friend- 
ship is  a  word  of  deep  meaning;  I  am  a  rainy-weather 
friend.     When  you  are  in  need,  let  me  know. 

He  went  on  again  about  his  sister. 

"  Poor  thing  !  poor  thing  !     You  see,   it  is  always 


374  Stage-Struck. 

running  in  my  mind.  I  can  see  her  a  little  girl,  as  she 
played  with  her  dolls;  then  bigger,  when  she  came 
home  from  school  with  her  satchel  full  of  books; 
then  when,  a  young  lady,  she  left  for  Europe  to  be  an 
opera-singer.  Ah,  ah  !  sure  enough,  it  was  a  hard 
fate  for  so  honest  an  ambition  !  Poor  girl !  poor 
girl !" 

He  sighed  profoundly;  then  he  said,  "  Good-by." 
His  voice  trembled,  and  left  a  sound  of  melancholy 
upon  the  air. 

*'  Good-by,  and  God  bless  you,  Mr.  Randolph  !" 

He  pressed  Mrs.  Almont's  hand,  then  Annabel's. 
Her  heart  was  too  full  for  words,  but  her  eyes  were 
eloquent  with  gratitude.  How  happy  they  were  ! 
and  what  blessings  were  heaped  upon  his  head  !  Yet 
his  sister's  awful  history  weighed  upon  their  hearts. 
To  think,  in  a  world  of  plenty,  a  beautiful  creature 
could  die  of  shame  and  starvation;  could  be  thrown 
like  a  dog  into  the  paupers'  field  !  Yet  her  fate  was 
but  that  of  many.  Does  it  reflect  aught  on  Americans 
abroad,  rolling  in  their  millions  and  plenty  ? 

Annabel  had  finished  her  season  at  Pavia  in  tri- 
umph. Her  benefit,  or,  as  it  is  called  in  Italy,  serata 
d'onore^  was  a  great  success;  but  the  incidentals,  as 
usual,  ate  up  more  than  the  profit.  A  symphony  had 
been  composed  for  her  "  evening,"  and  the  following 
day  the  orchestra-leader  calmly  asked  her  to  present 
him  with  a  souvenir  of  the  occasion.  He  asked  for 
*' something  of  value,"  explaining  that  he  knew  she 
was  a  rich  American,  and  that  these  presents  formed 
a  recognized  portion  of  his  salary.  So  Annabel  gave 
him  a  few  francs,  which  he  accepted  under  protest. 


Stage-Struck.  375 

A  bouquet  had  been  presented  by  the  directors  of 
the  theatre,  tied  with  an  enormous  sash,  on  which 
was  printed  a  **  dedication"  in  gold  letters,  ^^  Alia  il- 
lustrissima  cantatrice  Americana  Signorina  Annabella 
D'Almontiy  She  had  to  pay  for  both  the  sash  and 
the  golden  letters.  A  heavy  bill  was  presented  for 
printing  satin  programmes,  etc.  etc.,  and  extra  adver- 
tisements in  the  newspaper:  this  also  had  to  be  set- 
tled.   But  now  Annabel  was  quite  a  star  in  the  colony. 

The  next  thing  which  amazed  her  was  the  number 
of  theatrical  journals  addressed  to  her.  In  some  there 
were  fine  notices  of  her  singing;  in  others,  the  most 
ridiculous  accounts.  She  received  a  quantity  of  let- 
ters inviting  her  to  subscribe  to  these  papers.  The 
other  students  explained,  that  if  she  did  not  imme- 
diately take  them,  she  would  have  cause  to  rue  it  on 
future  occasions.  And  so  ended  the  incident  of  her 
first  appearance  as  a  prima  donna. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

Annabel  would  not  have  been  able  to  sing  at  the 
Carnival  season,  even  had  she  obtained  an  engage- 
ment. Over-work  and  the  reaction  after  the  excite- 
ment of  her  first  appearance  had  made  her  quite  ill. 
The  weather  had  been  bitterly  cold,  and  the  wintry- 
wind,  which  comes  down  from  the  neighboring  Alps, 
renders  the  climate  of  Milan  one  of  the  most  insidi- 
ous in  Europe.  It  had  blown  almost  continuously- 
through  the  streets.  She  had  an  extinction  de  voix^ 
then  a  cough,  which  laid  her  up. 

Mr.  Randolph's  money  was  exhausted  nearly  to  the 
last  sou.  They  almost  lost  heart.  Annabel  had 
fallen  into  the  usual  rut:  a  successful  debut,  American 
newspapers  filled  with  the  wildest  and  most  exag- 
gerated accounts  of  her  singing,  daily  looking  for 
another  chance,  and  then  illness  from  exhaustion  and 
fretting.     Her  pride  alone  sustained  her. 

Count  Arani,  whom  she  had  met  at  the  agent's,  and 
who  resided  in  Milan,  had,  on  her  return  there,  perse- 
cuted her  with  his  attentions.  These  at  last  had  be- 
come so  demonstrative  that  she  had  been  obliged  to 
decline  his  further  acquaintance.  Dozens  had  paid 
court,  meaning  marriage,  besides  the  other  hangers-on 
to  the  skirts  of  a  pretty  artist;  but  Annabel  had  never 
wavered  in  her  love  for  Brakenston. 

All  other  men  were  utterly  indifferent  to  her.     She 


St  age-Struck.  377 

often  wondered  if  he  ever  thought  of  her.  Nearly 
two  years  had  elapsed  since  they  had  last  met,  and  in 
all  that  time  he  had  never  even  written  a  word — never 
even  made  a  sign  of  life.  She  was  a  fool  to  still  think 
of  him;  and  yet  how  could  she  help  herself?  Had 
she  confided  in  her  mother  at  first,  she  would  have 
been  happier.  Often  she  had  thought  she  would  speak; 
yet  when  the  time  came,  she  shrank  from  allusion  to 
him.  The  fear  of  appearing  weak  and  unwomanly 
had  not  a  little  to  do  with  her  dread.  Perhaps  she 
also  hoped  that  he  would  give  some  sign  of  life;  but 
she  had  hoped  in  vain. 

A  year  had  almost  passed,  autumn  was  waning,  and 
still  she  was  at  Milan  without  an  engagement.  They 
had  heard  nothing  more  of  Mr.  Randolph.  What 
could  have  happened  to  their  kind  friend?  Surely  he 
was  not  the  man  to  promise  aid  and  then  to  for- 
get !  What  were  they  to  do  ?  which  way  should  they 
turn  ?  Oh,  the  sting  of  being  poor,  and  of  trying  to 
keep  up  appearances  !  Annabel  suffered  more  from 
pride  than  poverty.  She  secretly  envied  the  sewing- 
woman,  or  the  lace-mender.  Had  she  known  how  to 
do  anything  under  the  sun  that  would  bring  in  money, 
she  would  cheerfully  have  done  it.  She  happily 
recovered  from  her  severe  cold  and  its  accompanying 
prostration.  Every  day  she  went  the  round  to  the 
theatrical  agents;  every  day  she  received  the  same 
answer — 

"  Nothing  for  you." 

One  by  one  they  had  pawned  almost  all  of  their 
little  valuables.  As  a  climax  to  their  misfortunes, 
Mrs.  Almont  received  a  letter  one  morning  from  her 


378  Stage-Struck, 

husband,  announcing  that  he  had  come  to  Europe, 
and  was  at  present  ill  in  London. 

The  exaggerated  reports  in  the  American  news- 
papers of  Annabel's  success  had  led  him  to  suppose 
that  they  were  living  in  comfort,  perhaps  luxury, 
while  he  was  neglected  and  abandoned  in  America. 
On  the  strength  of  his  daughter's  brilliant  success  he 
had  been  able  to  borrow  enough  money  to  get  him 
to  London.  Once  there,  he  felt  and  knew  that  some- 
thing must  "  turn  up."  Being  one  of  the  deceased 
Micawber's  direct  financial  heirs,  he  was  never  with- 
out budding  hope. 

Mrs.  Almont  was  obliged  to  go  to  London.  This 
time  it  was  the  English  consul  who  kindly  came  to 
their  aid.  In  fact,  when  had  not  Mr.  Nelson  been 
heart,  mind,  and  pocket  at  the  disposition  of  many  of 
the  students  at  that  time  in  Milan  ?  Mrs.  Almont 
was  deeply  distressed  on  being  obliged  to  leave  An- 
nabel. The  parting  between  mother  and  daughter 
was  most  tender.  In  prosperous  days  they  had  known 
and  appreciated  each  other  less;  now  in  adversity 
they  were  drawn  together.  It  was  hard  to  go  away, 
but  her  duty  as  a  wife  came  before  that  of  a  mother. 
The  last  good-bys  were  said,  and  Annabel  returned 
from  the  station  with  a  heavy  heart.  She  was  indeed 
alone. 

Amongst  her  friends  there  remained  one  beautiful 
girl,  Genevieve  Raynal.  Genevieve  was  the  hand- 
somest woman  in  Milan;  the  most  industrious,  the 
most  respected  and  beloved  of  the  whole  American 
colony.  Her  patience  and  strength  of  character  were 
wonderful. 


Stage-Struck,  379 

She  had  but  a  most  meagre  allowance,  yet  she  never 
complained.  She  wore  one  black  gown  until  it  was 
threadbare;  yet,  for  all  that,  she  never  looked  less  at- 
tractive. The  Milanese  youth  still  called  her  '*  Lady 
Scatolung,"  and  made  love  to  her.  She  rejected  all 
overtures,  saying,  "  I  love  myself  better  than  jewels 
and  fine  clothes."  She  and  Isabelle  were  old  and  dear 
friends;  and  now  that  the  Stanleys  were  gone,  Anna- 
bel saw  something  of  her:  but  it  was  never  the  friend- 
ship which  sometimes  exists  between  girls. 

Annabel  understood  Genevieve's  nature.  Like  her- 
self, she  was  reserved,  proud,  and  uncomplaining; 
and  alluded  as  little  to  her  own  affairs  as  to  those  of 
others. 

She  never  gossiped;  in  fact,  that  quality  was  mo- 
nopolized by  the  men  in  Milan.  When  one  of  the  sex 
has  nothing  to  do,  he  develops  an  astonishing  propen- 
sity for  talk, — small-talk,  if  you  will, — and  his  curiosity 
far  surpasses  that  of  woman.  Men  fall  into  mischief 
when  let  alone;  they  have  much  less  real  self-sustain- 
ing power  than  women. 

That  person  is  very  remarkable  who  can  live  in 
Italy  and  come  forth  unscathed  from  this  hot-bed, 
where  the  men  are  even  fonder  than  women  of 
scandal.  No  one  has  any  occupation;  so  the  cause  of 
this  is  very  evident.  The  Milanese  idler  is  generally  a 
younger  son  of  one  of  the  old  families.  He  lives  at 
home,  and  enjoys  an  income  of  about  a  hundred  a 
year.  He  has  plenty  of  natural  shrewdness,  is  quick 
at  repartee,  and  his  ignorance  is  almost  regrettable. 
Most  of  his  income  is  spent  on  adorning  his  person, 
and  the  dream  of  his  life  is  to  be  taken  for  an  Eng- 


380  Stage-Struck. 

lishman,  although  he  seldom  gets  much  beyond  the 
picturesque  dress  of  his  country.  He  rises  late,  and 
after  an  hour  at  his  toilet  he  sallies  forth  to  a  cafe. 
In  the  course  of  the  day  he  honors  three  or  four  of 
these  establishments,  as  well  as  the  Galleria,  with  his 
presence.  In  the  afternoon  he  drives  out  to  the 
Bastione  in  a  fiacre;  after  a  short  visit  to  the  club,  he 
dines  at  home.  During  the  Carnival  season  he  visits 
the  opera  nightly,  as  he  is  determined  to  get  full 
value  for  the  hundred  francs  which  he  pays  for  his 
season's  subscription,  and  lounges  in  the  boxes  of  his 
various  friends.  Later  on  he  drops  into  several 
salons;  for,  as  is  the  custom  throughout  Italy,  many 
ladies  receive  every  evening,  and  always  very  late. 

At  these  salons  he  finds  perhaps  half  a  dozen  ladies 
and  gentlemen  discussing  their  neighbors  and  them- 
selves, or  playing  at  cards  for  centime  points.  Mid- 
night well  over,  he  again  drops  into  a  cafe'  and  swal- 
lows a  heavy  but  cheap  supper;  after  which  he  be- 
takes himself  to  his  club. 

If  he  has  money,  he  gambles;  if  not,  he  follows  the 
play  of  others  with  anxious  eyes.  Not  till  day-dawn 
does  he  gets  to  bed.  He  is  perfectly  well-bred,  good- 
natured,  and  amusing,  when  he  is  not  in  a  sentimental 
phase:  in  which  case  he  becomes  lachrymose.  If 
the  object  of  his  affection  turns  a  deaf  ear  to  his  allure- 
ments, he  makes  the  entire  town  a  confidant  of  his 
woes;  even  the  waiters  at  the  cafe's  know  when  il  Signer 
Conte  is  a  victim  of  unrequited  love. 

His  mode  of  paying  court  is  curious.  Arrayed  in 
his  choicest  habiliments,  with  a  pink  in  his  button- 
hole, and  his    hair  well  pomaded,  he   seldom  says   a 


Stage-Struck.  381 

word,  but  he  glares  fixedly  at  the  object  of  his  affec^ 
tions,  being  apparently  under  the  impression  that  his 
glances  possess  the  fabled  power  of  the  fatal  serpent, 
and  will  fascinate  his  Eve  no  matter  by  how  many 
Adams  she  may  be  guarded. 

Annabel  spent  much  time  at  the  maestro's.  She 
sang  without  heart,  and  she  studied  but  listlessly. 

One  day  she  burst  into  tears,  and  declared  that  she 
would  give  it  up.  "  Everything  goes  wrong,  dear 
maestro,"  she  said.  "I  seem  to  sing  worse  every  day; 
and  I  know  I  shall  never  be  a  great  singer." 

Trivulsi  looked  affectionately  at  her;  then  spoke. 
"  Come  and  sit  beside  me,  dear  Annabellina,  and  we 
will  have  an  oral  lesson.  First  of  all,  let  us  be  very 
frank  with  each  other.  Dost  thou  think  thyself  that 
thou  hast  any  talent?  and  canst  thou  define  the  dif- 
ference in  singers,  in  studying,  between  a  career  and  a 
pastime  ?  For  an  amateur,  any  one  would  consider 
thee  a  marvel.  As  a  professional,  thou  wouldst  hardly 
pass  for  one." 

She  flushed.  *'  Dear  maestro,  I  know  I  seem  very 
impatient;  but  will  you  tell'me  what  I  must  do  to  be- 
come a  singer;  and  the  difference  between  a  profes- 
sional and  an  amateur  ?  I  should  think  that  good 
singing  would  be  good  singing  the  world  over, 
whether  by  one  or  the  other.  What  is  the  differ- 
ence ?" 

"  First  let  me  speak  of  thyself.  I  tell  thee  what  to 
do  when  thou  art  here;  but  there  are  many  hours  of 
the  day  when  thou  must  study  by  thyself  and  try  to 
apply  my  teaching.  The  mischief  is  done  when  the 
pupil  studies  alone.    Before  beginning  to  learn  operas. 


382  St  age-Struck. 

there  is  the  mechanical  training  required  for  the 
voice.  The  student  should  sing  exercises  for  an  hour 
each  day — half  an  hour  in  the  morning  and  half  an 
hour  in  the  afternoon.  Sing  first  a  slow  scale  of  eight 
notes,  then  one  of  nine.  Agility  in  the  voice  can  only 
be  acquired  in  one  way.  It  all  must  be  in  exact  time 
and  measure.  For  example,  we  will  say  that  the 
pupil  cannot  sing  the  scale  of  F  perfectly.  In  a  cer- 
tain tempo  it  may  go  all  right.  A  real  artist  should 
never  say,  I  can  sing  this  scale  and  not  that.  If  he 
possess  the  mechanical  power  to  do  one,  he  must  be 
able,  should  his  throat  have  been  well  trained,  to  do 
the  other;  for  the  note  is  born  in  his  head  before  he 
gives  mechanical  expression  to  the  sound  by  his  voice. 
In  fact,  the  throat  is  to  the  singer  what  the  violin  is  to 
the  violinist,  the  flute  to  the  flutist,  and  the  piano 
to  the  pianist.  Usually,  the  moment  that  a  singer 
attempts  to  vary  the  time,  the  execution  falls  to  pieces. 
This  is  wrong.  Excellence  should  not  be  remarked 
in  one  way  more  than  in  another.  The  throat  has  no 
right  to  do  one  thing  better  or  worse  than  another, 
only  as  it  has  been  taught,  it  being  a  perfectly 
mechanical  organ.  To  acquire  vocal  agility  (to  use 
the  technical  term)  a  pupil  must  sing  a  scale  very 
slowly  in  the  same  tempo  for  a  week,  and  on  no  ac- 
count go  faster  the  last  day  than  the  first.  During 
the  second  week  it  must  be  a  little  faster;  then  during 
the  third  a  little  faster — this  also  for  a  week;  then 
during  a  fourth  week  still  faster.  At  the  end 
of  the  month  the  pupil  finds  that  he  is  able  to 
sing  four  times  as  fast  as  he  did-in  the  first  week. 
This  is  the  way  to  begin  to  study;  but  smoothness  of 


Stage-Struck.  383 

execution  and  perfection  are  only  attained  by  singing 
scales  and  exercises  in  the  different  tempos  for  weeks, 
and  months,  and  years.  No  cadenza  nor  exercise 
should  be  sung  without  putting  it  in  specified  time, 
accenting  it,  beating  the  measure  with  the  exactitude 
of  a  metronome;  nothing  should,  be  left  to  chance  or 
inspiration.  A  person  may  be  more  disposed  some 
days  than  others;  but  the  throat,  if  in  proper  condi- 
tion, should  be  trained  so  that  it  cannot  go  wrong  on 
any  day." 

"  But,  dear  maestro,  some  sing  exquisitely  although 
they  have  studied  little;  though,  in  fact,  they  have 
neve  been  regularly  taught.     How  is  this?" 

"  I  never  knew  any  great  singer  who  did  not  slave 
for  years  in  the  beginning,  and  who  did  not  keep  up 
the  most  vigorous  training  of  exercises,  after  even  the 
greatest  success.  Chance  may  bring  one  artist  to  the 
front  by  his  success  in  one  particular  rdle^  and  he  may 
subsequently  fail  in  all  others.  He  may  be  bad  in 
every  succeeding  thing,  as  he  had  been  in  every  pre- 
vious one;  but  if  he  be  a  trained  singer,  he  will  show 
his  training  in  every  part  he  sings,  whether  he  win 
applause  or  not.  This  it  is  to  be  an  artist:  his  throat 
knows  no  difference,  but  will  go  as  it  has  been  taught. 
It  is  always  ready.  He  takes  his  part,  he  portions  out 
each  phrase,  each  measure,  and  commences  to  study. 
If  an  air  comes  to  him.  by  ear,  he  rejects  it  and  does 
not  pay  attention  until  he  learns  it  in  its  place,  with  its 
proper  time  and  sentiment.  Everything  is  by  rule 
and  in  order  with  the  professional  singer.  An  ama- 
teur may  have  a  better  natural  voice  than  a  profes- 
sional; but  as   he  has  not   by   hard  study  and    long 


384  Stage-Struck. 

practice  mechanically  reconstructed  his  throat  and 
.converted  it  into  a  musical  instrument,  he  will  never 
be  able  to  equal  the  professional.  His  throat  will 
never  be  subservient  to  his  talent. 

*'  Cara  An7zabelltna,  amateurs  rarely  sing  very  well. 
They  pay  no  attention  to  detail;  their  voices  are  so 
uncultured;  that  they  often  fail  in  expressing  what 
they  wish,  owing  to  their  throats  being  unable  to  re- 
spond to  the  calls  that  are  made  upon  them.  They 
have  little  idea  of  time,  and  no  knowledge  of  phrasing. 
They  say,  'Oh,  I  only  sing  for  pleasure;'  and  they 
forget  that  one  either  sings  well  or  badly.  Nothing 
is  so  annoying  as  a  mediocrity;  and  I  sometimes  think 
that  is  the  real  definition  of  the  word  dilettanti.  In 
the  first  place,  the  reason  is  that  they  cannot,  or  will 
not,  devote  enough  time  to  necessary  study;  a  little 
hard  work  goes  a  great  way,  but  it  must  be  serious. 
An  amateur  sits  down  at  the  piano,  and  says,  '  Now  I 
will  have  a  good  practice.'  One  scale  is  sung  up  and 
down,  perhaps  twice,  without  an  idea  of  whether  it  is 
in  one  tempo  or  another;  or  whether  one  note  is  ex- 
actly like  the  other;  or  even  whether  it  can  be  of  use 
after  in  a  cadenza.  A  few  arpeggios  are  then  rushed 
through.  After  this  comes  a  song  without  words, 
followed  by  some  grand  aria,  in  which  the  mistakes 
of  one  day  are  conscientiously  repeated  the  next. 
Tired  out  after  the  hour's  bad  study,  they  never  look 
at  their  piano  until  the  next  day;  when  the  same 
thing  is  again  gone  through.  Of  course,  when  I  com^ 
pare  artists  and  amateurs,  I  mean  real  artists." 
"  But  the  other  class  you  named,  maestro  ?" 
"  Not  the  besotted  vain  aspirants  who  give  them- 


Stage-Struck.  385 

selves  two  years  in  which  to  become  singers,  who 
learn  a  number  of  operas,  who  never  hear  a  new  aria 
but  they  decide  it  was  written  for  their  voices,  and 
buy  it  at  once;  who  mistake  obstinacy  for  assiduity, 
memory  for  talent,  and  perseverance  for  true  applica- 
tion; who  have  learned  a  quantity  of  rdles^  but  none 
perfectly;  who  believe  in  their  voices,  but  count  still 
more  for  success  on  their  assurance.  Ferb  Carina^ 
we  have  talked  enough  about  others;  let  us  go  on 
with  our  lesson." 

Annabel  wondered  what  the  great  performers  in  the 
choir  at  La  Crosse  would  have  thought  if  they  had 
heard  the  maestro's  lecture  upon  music,  and  what  he 
would  have  thought  had  he  heard  their  ingenuous 
efforts.  She  almost  blushed  when  she  remembered 
her  pride  whenever  she  sang,  "  I  want  to  be  an  Angel." 
Could  it  really  be  that  all  the  professors  of  music  who 
had  come  to  La  Crosse,  and  who  had  lived  at  the 
expense  of  the  inhabitants  in  consideration  of  inform- 
ing the  bulk  of  them  that  they  were  heaven-born 
musicians,  were  nothing  but  greedy  humbugs  ?  She 
reflected  on  what  the  maestro  had  said,  as  she  went 
home,  and  "  to  think"  that  amateurs  were  not  alone 
confined  to  America. 

The  boarding-house  was  still  going  on,  but  simply 
kept  its  head  above  water.  Angel  had  been  study- 
ing with  Trivulsi,  and  so  had  Genevieve,  Urbini, 
Lansini,  and  a  numiber  of  others.  In  fact,  the  dear 
old  man  had  his  hands  full. 

Angel  had  an  engagement  to  sing  near  Naples. 
He  wrote  that  he  had  made  a  debut  as  Alfredo  in  "  La 
Traviata,"  and  finally  discovered  that  this  role  was  not 


386  Stage-Struck, 

robusto  enough.  He  signed  a  scrittura  to  go  to  Au- 
stralia, and  before  Annabel  had  time  to  answer  his 
letter  he  was  off  for  Melbourne. 

How  the  days  dragged,  and  how  lonesome  she  was, 
how  unhappy !  "The  iron  of  discouragement  had 
entered  her  soul.  The  steadfast  courage  which  had 
sustained  and  filled  even  her  dreams  with  hope  was 
a  thing  of  the  past.  She  found  herself  often  asking 
herself  whether  the  life  she  led  were  worth  living. 
She  often  thought  of  Brak,  but  without  resentment, 
and  she  wondered  why  her  mind  so  constantly  re- 
verted to  him.  There  was  little  news  of  the  outer 
world.  Her  world  was  Milan.  Milan  with  its  un- 
changing life,  its  restless  fretful  current,  its  monotony 
of  impecunious  students,  its  thousand  prima  donnas 
without  work,  and  the  same  faces  to  be  seen  at  every 
turn,  in  every  street,  in  every  corner.  Living  misery, 
shiftlessness,  and  demoralization. 

She  could  study  but  little  in  summer,  for  the  heat 
was  suffocating. 

She  spent  all  her  days  in  much  the  same  way,  except 
that  she  went  to  the  agencies,  Alice  Weiss  was 
a  kind  little  friend;  they  met  frequently,  but  that  was 
all.  Annabel  was  depressed  for  many  reasons.  She 
had  been  brave  until  courage  seemed  bravado.  She 
had  but  scant  news  from  her  mother,  and  her  poverty 
was  such  that  she  had  to  live  almost  entirely  on  polenta^ 
like  the  poorest  of  Italians.  She  still  went  to  the 
maestro's,  although  too  listless  to  sing.  Her  mother 
was  at  her  father's  bedside.  She  had  told  Annabel  to 
borrow  some  money  if  she  could;  and  she,  to  lighten 
her  mother's  cares,  said  little  in  her  letters  of  her  own 


Stage-Struck,  387 

troubles.  She  began  to  lose  all  hope.  This  so  startled 
her  that  she  longed  to  die.  She  thought  of  the  great 
artists,  their  struggles,  their  trials;  and  she  said  to 
herself,  "  I  am  not  fit  to  follow  in  their  footsteps,  and 
any  American  who  ever  loses  heart  is  a  disgrace  to 
the  country." 

Lack  of  money  undoubtedly  tends  to  moral  men- 
dicity. She  was  tired,  ill,  and  felt  herself  degraded, 
owing  to  the  constantly  recurring  scenes  in  which  her 
poverty  and  her  ambition  had  involved  her.  She  still 
loved  her  art,  but  she  began  to  hate  its  surroundings, 
and  her  heart's  struggle  beat  with  dire  faintness. 

Almost  every  day  she  went  into  the  cathedral,  and 
passed  hours  aimlessly  wandering  through  its  dim 
aisles,  or  pausing  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  the  priest 
as  he  droned  through  some  service.  She  often 
stopped  at  one  of  the  altars,  as  she  felt  a  sort  of 
sacred  happiness  whenever  she  went  into  the  great 
Duomo.  One  evening  she  found  herself  in  one  of  the 
side  chapels.  She  knelt  down  to  pray.  No  words 
came  to  her  lips,  but  she  cried  and  sobbed  as  though 
her  heart  would  break.  An  old  priest  was  silently 
watching  her.     He  drew  near. 

''  My  child,"  he  said,  "  why  this  grief  ?" 

"  Mio  padre  r  She  arose  precipitately,  as  though 
ashamed  of  her  emotion. 

He  continued:  "Is  there  anything  on  your  mind? 
Will  you  not  lay  all  your,  cares  completely  at  the  foot 
of  the  Cross?    Will  you  confess  ?" 

"  My  father,"  she  answered,  blushing,  "  I  have 
naught  to  confess." 

She  was  trembling  like  a  criminal    The  word  "con- 


388  St  age-Struck. 

fess  "  had  stung  her.  The  priest  looked  compassion- 
ately at  her. 

^^  Figlia  mia,  no  matter  what  your  troubles  may  be, 
when  once  you  have  confided  them  to  the  Church,  you 
will  alone  know  repose.  I  am  an  old  man,  and  have 
known  many  children  like  you  whom  the  world  has 
treated  harshly.     No  matter  how  you  have  sinned — " 

"Sinned  !"  She  drew  herself  up,  and  with  a  proud 
inclination  of  her  head  she  walked  away. 

She  had  remained  longer  than  usual,  and  the  shades 
of  night  were  falling.  When  she  passed  through  the 
great  portal  of  the  cathedral,  she  hurried  along  the 
street  with  a  fast-beating  heart.  As  she  neared  home 
she  felt  a  hand  upon  her  shoulder.  She  started 
violently,  and  found  herself  face  to  face  with — Braken- 
ston.'  Before  she  could  realize  that  it  was  really  he, 
these  words  fell  upon  her  ear: 

"  I  once  asked  you  to  choose  between  love  and  am- 
bition.    Do  you  still  prefer  your  art  to  me  ?" 

Before  he  had  ceased  speaking,  her  answer  was 
given.     She  threw  herself  into  his  arms. 

*'  My  son  !"  A  voice  rang  out  on  the  stillness  of  the 
night. 

Both  started.  Annabel  recognized  the  old  priest 
who  had  followed  her  from  the  cathedral.  Brak 
looked  at  him  doggedly,  then  seemed  to  ponder 
deeply.  He  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead  two 
or  three  times,  then  turned  towards  him.  His  eyes 
blazed  fitfully,  and  a  desperate  smile  accompanied 
his  words. 

"Heaven  has  sent  you, ^adre  into.  Will  you  marry 
us  now,  at  once  ?" 


Stage-Struck.  389 

Annabel  started,  and  the  priest  looked  troubled. 

'^  Marry  you  now  ?"  he  stammered.  "  I  know  noth- 
ing of  you,  nothing  of  her.  There  are  formalities 
which  ought  to  be  fulfilled.     I  cannot — " 

"Father,"  Brak  interrupted,  "I  ask  you  again,  will 
you  marry  us  ?  If  not,  the  sin  be  upon  your  own 
head." 

He  turned  to  Annabel  and  grasped  her  hands. 
-"  Yes,  I  mean  it." 

The  old  man  reflected. 

"  Do  you  wish  it,  really  wish  it  ?"  he  said  to  An- 
nabel. 

Brak  still  held  her  hands.  He  looked  searchingly 
into  her  eyes.  She  returned  his  look  with  one  soulful 
glance,  then  said  to  the  priest, 

"  Yes,  padre  mto'* 

^^  Poverina!  Take  me  to  your  own  home;  the  bene- 
diction of  the  Church  cannot  harm  you." 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

Brakenston  and  Annabel  had  been  married  a  fort- 
night. He  had  told  her  all:  how  he  had  come  there 
because  he  could  no  longer  live  without  seeing  her. 
She  was  supremely  happy.  In  his  presence  she  for- 
got all  her  cares  and  troubles.  She  could  hardly 
believe  that  he  was  really  by  her  side,  never  more  to 
leave  her.  She  confessed  to  him  again  and  again 
that  she  had  loved  him  from  the  first,  and  she  threw 
the  fault  of  their  long  separation  on  him. 

"On  me?"  he  said.  '*  I  never  forgot  you  for  a 
moment.  I  wandered  far  and  wide,  but  everywhere 
your  image  was  with  me.  I  was  at  death's  door  when 
you  left  London.  I  have  been  nearly  over  every  part 
of  the  world,  trying  to  forget  you;  but  impossible. 
Your  image  was  always  with  me." 

"  Besides  that,  you  had  my  photograph,  I  know. 
Annie  wrote — " 

He  clasped  her  hand  tightly.  "Annie  wrote  you? 
When  ?  How  long  ago  ?  What — what  did  she  have 
to  say  ?" 

"Oh,  nothing  much.     I  will  show  you  the  letter." 

"You  have  it  still?    Why?" 

"  Why  ?  Why,  can  you  not  imagine  ?  She  spoke  of 
you.  She  said  that  she  knew  you  had  taken  my 
picture.     That  is  all  I  heard.     No,  not  all.     Mrs.  Ed- 


3tage-Struck.  39! 

monds  wrote  that  they  had  never  seen  you  but  once 
or  twice." 

"Did — did  she  mention  Lallie  ?"  His  voice  was 
measured  and  cold. 

Annabel  hesitated.  "  I— I  think  they  thought  that 
— that,  in  fact,  you  did  not  love — " 

"  They  thought  right.  How  could  I  love  any  one, 
when  I  cared  only  for  you  ?  But  show  me  what  Annie 
wrote." 

She  ran  and  fetched  the  letter. 

He  took  it  eagerly.  "  Is  this  the  last,  the  only  news 
you  have  had  from  them  ?  However,  it  is  not  strange. 
They  are  no  longer  in  Salisbury  Street.  Who  knows 
if  they  are  even  in  *that  great  gathering-place  of 
souls'  — London  ?'* 

"  This  is  the  first,  last,  and  only  letter.  Are  you 
satisfied,  Mr.  Curiosity?  But  —  Lallie" — Annabel's 
tone  was  anxious — "  you  always  speak  of  her.  I — I 
am  jealous." 

"Jealous?  What!  jealous  now?"  He  kissed  her 
again  and  again.  "  You  have  no  cause  for  jealousy. 
You  have  my  heart,  my  soul,  my — my  all — my  honor. 
I  am  all  yours,  as  you  are  mine." 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  if  I  were  to  lose  you  now  !" 

She  shuddered,  and  her  head  sank  on  his  shoulder. 
He  soothed  and  caressed  her,  with  words  of  love. 

"  Darling,  you  must  never  doubt  me.  If  you  love 
me,  you  must  believe  in  me." 

Then  she  answered,  "  I  do  believe  in  you  as  I  do  in 
myself.  I  shall  love  you  for  ever,  and  tell  you,  every 
hour  in  the  day,  just  how  much  I  think  of  you." 

Thus  days  and  weeks  passed.     They  were  like  two 


392  Stage-Struck. 

children.  They  lived  on,  happy  in  the  present,  "  the 
world  forgetting,  and  by  the  world  forgot." 

One  morning,  Annabel  sat  alone.  The  day  was 
stormy;  the  wind  howled  dismally.  Yet  within,  what 
warmth  and  cheerfulness !  A  fire  burned  brightly; 
some  flowers  were  in  an  old  vase;  the  painted  Cupids 
in  the  frescoed  ceiling  seemed  alive,  and  looking  down 
upon  her  with  the  greatest  affection.  Was  this  the 
same  cold,  uncomfortable  room  where  she  had  spent 
so  many  hours  of  misery  ? — the  old  carpet  where  even 
the  rags  had  so  distressed  her  ?  It  was  now  as  soft 
to  her  feet  as  arbusson.  The  faded  hangings  at  the 
windows  were  no  longer  uncanny.  They  were  now  the 
faithful  sentinels  which  hid  herself  and  her  love  from 
the  whole  world. 

She  sat  pensive,  expectant;  and  she  moved  only 
when  she  heard  a  footstep  at  the  outer  door.  Her 
heart  leapt  into  her  mouth.  Was  it  the  fire  that  cast 
so  ruddy  a  glow  upon  her  face,  or  the  heat  of  that 
inward  flame  which  found  outward  expression  in  eye 
and  cheek  ?  She  sank  back  on  the  old  sofa,  and  cov- 
ered her  face  with  her  hands. 

In  a  moment  he  was  at  her  side,  at  her  feet.  He 
buried  his  head  in  her  lap,  murmuring  soft  words  of 
love;  then  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  hers. 

"Annabel,  you  have  made  a  slave  of  me.  I  have 
been  out  of  your  sight  two  hours;  it  has  been  a  cen- 
tury! I  love  you;  I  love  you — can  you  not  see  how 
much  ?  Are  you  a  sorceress,  that  you  have  managed 
so  quickly  to  enchain  my  very  soul  ?  When  I  walk  in 
the  streets,  I  see  only  you  in  every  woman's  face. 
When  away  from  you,  I  have  but  one  thought — to 


Stage-Struck.  393 

come  and  throw  myself  at  your  feet.  Ah  !  Annabel, 
Annabel,  I  love  yow—je  f  adore,  tu  in  as  ensorcele  !  " 

She  laughed  gently.  Her  hand  caressed  his  hair, 
his  cheek,  while  she  laid  her  own  up  against  his  face. 

"  You  are  a  great  baby.  You  tell  me  this  just  to  see 
what  answer  I  will  make.  Now,  listen.  I  have  been 
two  hours  without  you;  the  time  has  seemed  cen- 
turies. I  love  you — can  you  not  see  how  much  ?  I 
have  been  wandering  everywhere — in  imagination — 
and  every  object  I  saw  was  Brak;  every  man's  face 
bore  your  image.  You  have  managed  so  quickly  to 
enchain  my  soul,  I  have  left  all  the  splendid  chateaux 
en  Espagne  to  have  one  man  throw  himself  at  my  feet. 
Brak,  Brak,  je  f adore,  tu  in' as  ensorceUT*  Then  she 
threw  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  hugged  him 
tightly. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  I  had  been  making  love  to  a 
parrot,"  he  said,  with  mock  earnestness. 

"  Nor  I  to  a  bird  of  p — " 

"Stop!  There  are  three  winged  celebrities  in  the 
ornithology  of  fate,  each  beginning  with  a  /.  Now, 
which  one  am  I — a  bird  of  paradise,  passage,  or  prey  ? 
Which  one  am  I  ?  To  be  amiable,  you  might  call 
me — " 

"  And  I  do — the  first.  But,  had  I  to  choose  between 
the  other  two,  I  would  rather  that  you  were  the  last 
than  the  second." 

"  Thanks.  But  what  have  you  done  during  my  ab- 
sence ?  A  propos  we  ought  not  to  dine  out ;  the  weather 
is  simply  vile.  Do  you  remember  the  cold  tea  you 
once  gave  me  to  drink,  and  the  picnic  on  the  Thames 
— the  first  and  only  one  we  ever  had  together?" 


394  Stage-Struck, 

"  Do  I  remember  ?" — with  an  accent  of  reproach. 
"  How  many  times  have  I  thought  of  it!     Oh — " 

"  What  is  it  ?" 

"  Nothing.  I  also  thought  of  some  one  else  at  the 
same  time."  She  remembered  Lallie,  and  the  story 
of  Lorelei. 

"Some  one  else?"  he  said,  with  a  jealous  accent — 
"  some  one  else  ?"  Than  he  laughed  scornfully. 
"  Naturally,  there  have  been  plenty  to  make  love  to 
you  during  all  these  months.  Can  you  mean  it  ?" 
He  seized  her  hand.  "Do  not  trifle  with  me.  Great 
God!  women  are  all  alike.  Perhaps  you  were  expect- 
ing some  one  else  when  I  came  to  Milan  ?  I  hope  I 
have  not  returned  too  soon  to-day  to  interrupt  ?" 

He  dropped  her  hand  angrily,  and  went  towards 
the  piano.  She  followed  him  stealthily;  then,  as  he 
commenced  playing,  she  threw  her  arms  around  his 
neck. 

"  Yes,  dear,  you  did  interrupt;  and  you  came  back 
too  soon.  Had  you  left  me  for  an  hour  more,  my  joy 
only  would  have  been  greater  when  you  returned.  I 
was  thinking —     But  tell  me  something  first." 

«  Yes,"  sullenly.     "  What  ?" 

"  How  much  you  love  me."  The  arms  were  still 
about  his  neck.  "Whisper  it,  please.  I  don't  want  all 
this  old  furniture  to  hear." 

Her  caresses  won  him  over.  He  whispered  some- 
thing so  tender  that  she  placed  a  hand  over  his  mouth. 
The  final  words,  "More  than  myself,  my  life,  my 
soul,  my  honor,"  dropped  like  pearls  through  her 
fingers. 

She    smiled,  quite  content,  but    said,  "It    is  not 


Stage-Struck.  395 

enough,  still  will  do  for  the  moment.  Now,  shall  I 
tell  you  the  name  of — of  the  person  of  whom  I  was 
thinking  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  it  was — again,  as  always — of  Lallie." 

His  hands  came  down  upon  the  keyboard  with  a 
crash.  His  heart  throbbed  with  such  violence  that 
she  felt  his  whole  body  quiver.  She  was  stunned, 
dumbfounded.     He  never  spoke. 

"  What  can  have  startled  you  ?  Has — has  anything 
happened  to  her?  Is — is  she  dead  ?"  Her  voice 
trembled  with  horror. 

He  turned  away  brusquely.  "Dead  ? — no.  You  ask 
what  has  happened.  Nothing;  only  I,  too,  was  think- 
ing of  our  day  on  the  river  and  your  fairy-story.  It  all 
came  back  so  vividly,  I  was  startled.  You  know  for 
two  years  that  I  have  always  thought  of  you,  and — 
and  during  my  illness — you  remember  about  my  brain- 
fever  ? — I  always  saw  you  as  you  looked  then  in  that 
boat.     Ugh!"     He  shuddered. 

She  placed  his  head  on  her  bosom.  "  Poor  darling! 
And  to  think  that  you  might  have  died  with  that  fever 
then — died  for  love  of  me,  not  the  fever!" 

"  For  love  of  you,"  he  repeated  sour  dement. 

"  Now  you  will  have  to  live  for  love  of  me.  We 
shall  have  to  live  for  love  of  each  other."  She  kissed 
him  as  she  spoke. 

He  was  quite  calm  by  this  time,  and  his  fingers  in- 
stinctively sought  their  old  refuge,  the  keys.  She  still 
clung  about  him. 

"  I  will  come  back  to  Mrs.  Edmonds.  Tell  me 
about  Lallie,  Belle,  and  Annie.     Are  they  all  well  ?" 


39^  Stage-Struck, 

"  As  I  told  you  a  week  ago,  I  have  not  seen  any  of 
them  lately  excepting — excepting  Lallie." 

A  fine  run  of  brilliant  ^/;^^^^// followed  this  expla- 
nation.    His  voice  was  half  covered  by. the  music. 

"  Lallie  ? — again  Lallie  ?" — half  jealously.  "  Is — is 
she  always  so  beautiful  ?  You  know  I  once  thought 
that  you  were  in  love  with  her."  She  spoke  anx- 
iously. 

"I?  Never!  I  have  never  loved  but  one  woman, 
and  you  know  well  who  that  is.  A  propos  of  the  Ed- 
monds' their  home  is  broken  up,  and — and  I  tliink  I 
once  told  you  that  they  are  not  even  in  London.  Lallie 
and  I  were  always  good  friends.  She  never  was 
beautiful,  and  now  she  is  not  as  pretty  as  she  was. 
But  never  let  us  speak  of  anybody  or  anything  but 
ourselves,  our  love.  Life  is  too  short.  You  are  the 
only  woman  in  the  world  for  me.  Remember  that  I 
have  to  make  up  for  two  years  during  which  I  never 
saw  you."  And  he  looked  fondly  into  her  eyes.  He 
continued.  "  Are  you  serious  ?  I  wish  to  talk  to  you 
about — about  affairs." 

"Affairs?     Music? — my  d3utr    ' 

'^  DSut!  No.  Don't  hope  to  take  me  in  with  that 
rubbish  !" — pointing  to  some  journals  near  by.  "No 
power  on  earth  could  make  me  believe,  that  you  are  a 
great  singer.  But  affairs.  First  of  all,  tell  me  some- 
thing— how  much  you  love  me." 

"  No;  I  don't  love  you.     I  have  changed  my  mind." 

"  That  is  impossible.     But  you  won't  tell  me  ?" 

«  N— no." 

"  Then  I  will  tell  you  coolly,  madam  may  give  her- 
self airs  if  she.  likes,   but  nothing  can  prevent   my 


Stage-Struck,  397 

loving  her — nothing."  He  sealed  his  words  with  a 
fond  kiss. 

"Really?  You  mean  it?  You,  then,  love  me  so 
much  ?" 

"Much?  I  have  said  nothing  about  much.  Per- 
haps it  is  little.  You  know  there  are  shades  to  every 
color.  But  will  you  listen  to  me  ?  I  wish  to  know  all 
about  yourself,  your  affairs.  Will  you  tell  me  or  not  ? 
You  are  always  putting  me  off." 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell." 

"Are  you  determined  to  misunderstand?  Must  I 
catechise  ?     Your  father  ?" 

"Ah,  poor  papa!     Yes,  I  may  tell  of  him;  but — " 

"The  old  word.  Great  Heaven!  Did  one  ever 
know  so  proud  or  obstinate  a  woman!" 

He  importuned  her  so  strongly  that  she  finally 
yielded.  She  told  him  everything  she  thought  neces- 
sary, but  barely  touched  on  her  poverty. 

"You  are  not  telling  me  all,  nor  all  of  the  truth.  I 
found  you  here  in  this  wretched  house.  To  think  of 
my  wife  living  in  such  a  way!  Now  there  is  to  be  a 
change.  You  are  to  go  to  a  better  apartment;  you 
are  to  buy  yourself  fine  dresses;  you  are  to  enjoy 
life.  I  have  brought  you  this,"  taking  a  case  from 
his  pocket.  "Annabel," — he  spoke  suddenly;  his 
tone  was  changed,  although  he  tried  to  make  it  care- 
less,— "have  you  written  to  your  mother  to  tell  her  of 
our  marriage  ?" 

"I  wrote  this  morning,  and  there's  the  letter." 

He  took  it  in  his  hand.  "Dearest,  this  letter  must 
not  go.  You  told  me  just  now  that  you  would  trust 
me.     Our  marriage  must  be  kept  a  secret  for  a  while," 


398  Stage-Struck, 

She  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  "  Why  ?  But 
why?"  she  asked  indignantly.  "You  are  ashamed  of 
me." 

"How  can  you  imagine  such  a  thing?  No;  this  is 
why.  I  am  entirely  dependent  on  my  uncle.  He  is 
always  proposing  some  grand  marriage  to  me.  If  he 
thought  me  capable  of  marrying  without  having  con- 
sulted him,  he'd  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  me.  I 
must  break  it  to  him  gradually." 

"  But  mamma — surely  I  may  tell — " 

"  Not  even  her." 

"  Well,  but  what  are  we  to  do  ?  I  thought  that  you 
were  going  to  take  me  away  from  Milan." 

"I  can  remain  here.  We  can  go  on  as  we  are  now. 
It  will  only  be  for  a  few  weeks.  I'll  write  to  him  to- 
day or  to-morrow." 

Annabel  sighed.  She  did  not  like  the  concealment. 
The  idea  of  being  a  wife  in  secret,  without  even  her 
mother  knowing  that  she  was  married,  was  a  shock  to 
her.     But  how  could  she  refuse  him  ? 

"  I  suppose  that  you  know  best.  I  will  do  what  you 
wish,  but  I  do  not  like  it.  I  am  so  proud  to  think 
that  you  preferred  me  to  any  one  else,  and  that  I  am 
really  and  truly  your  wife.  I  should  like  the  whole 
world  to  know  it." 

"And  the  whole  world  will  know  it.  We  shall  only 
have  to  keep  our  secret  for  a  few  weeks,  darling.  I 
have  told  you  my  reasons;  and  you  see  yourself  that 
our  whole  future  depends  upon  our  secrecy.  But  you 
have  told  me  nothing  yet  of  your  own  position.  All 
that  I  know  is  that  your  mother  has  gone  to  nurse 
your  father,  and  that  you  are  living  in  this  wretched 


Stage- Struck,  399 

apartment,  without,  I  suppose,  even  money  enough  to 
stave  off  want." 

"  I  was  waiting — I  am  waiting  for  an  engagement, 
and  every  day,  as  you  know,  I  take  my  singing-les- 
sons." 

"There  is  no  question  any  longer  of  an  engage- 
ment. You  belong  to  me,  and  your  future  is  my  care; 
so  tell  me  exactly  your  circumstances.  Does  your 
mother  send  you  any  money  ?" 

Annabel  hesitated.     "  No,"  she  at  last  said. 

"Then  how  do  you  live  ?" 

"  We  had  money  at  first."  Then  she  told  him  about 
her  father,  who  had  come  over  to  Europe  fancying 
that  she  was  a  prima  donna  rolling  in  gold. 

Brak  looked  serious. 

"Let  me  ask  you  a  favor,"  she  continued.  "Let 
me  remain  just  as  I  am  now.  The  rent  is  paid  till  the 
end  of  the  quarter.  We  will  go  out  to  dine  every  day 
at  a  restaurant  as  we  have  done.  I  have  still  a  little 
money  left.  When  I  am  your  wife  before  the  world, 
it  will  be  time  enough  then  for  me  to  spend  your 
money." 

"Well,  it  must  be  as  you  wish;  only,  for  the  future, 
if  you  want  anything,  remember  it  will  be  your  right 
— your  duty,  I  should  say — to  apply  to  me." 

And  so  they  lived  on.  Brak  was  more  like  a  lover 
than  a  husband.  He  seemed  to  have  but  one  thought 
upon  earth — herself.  Her  health,  her  happiness,  her 
thoughts  even,  were  his  constant  preoccupation.  Some 
days  he  was  downcast  and  depressed;  but  a  touch  of 
Annabel's  hand,  a  sound  of  her  soft  voice,  brought 
back  light  to  his  eye  and  cheerfulness  to  his  heart, 


40O  Stage-Struck, 

If  he  went  away  from  her  for  but  an  hour,  he  came 
hurrying  back;  and  before  she  could  ask  him  a  ques- 
tion, somehow,  without  knowing  how,  she  was  in  his 
arms,  her  head  pillowed  on  his  shoulder,  and  her 
hands  caressing  his  cheek.  Sometimes  in  his  unhappy 
mood  he  would  say, 

"Annabel,  you  have  given  yourself  to  a  good-for- 
nothing.  It's  all  very  well  now,  while  you  pretend  to 
care  for  me;  but  wait  until  poverty  comes  in  at  the 
door.  It  may  come,  you  know;  then  love  will  fly. 
But — but  you  will  never  forgive  me  for  having  spoiled 
your  life,  for  having  taken  advantage  of  your  love." 

She  smiled  tenderly.  "Yes,  I  know  I  shall  be  a 
blighted  being;  but  until  I  am,  dear,  don't  fret  about 
having  spoiled  my  life.  Only  tell  me  that  you  love  no 
one  in  all  this  wide  world  but  me,  and  I  shall  be 
satisfied.  Only  it  must  be  for  keeps,  as  the  children 
say.  You  must  love  me  for  ever;  you  can  never  take 
it  back." 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

Annabel  and  her  mother  had  long  lived  in  isola- 
tion; that  is  to  say,  it  was  isolation  for  Milan.  When 
they  left  the  "  boarding-house"  they  almost  dropped 
out  of  the  American  society.  After  her  mother's  de- 
parture she  continued  her  lessons  and  her  life  much 
in  the  same  old  way.  When  invited  to  go  about  with 
the  students,  she  pleaded  as  an  excuse  her  mother's 
absence  and  her  own  continuous  studies.  Her  heart 
overflowed  with  the  happiness  of  newly  found  love. 
Her  life  was  so  colored  with  this  new  sentiment  that 
everything  around  her  had  a  roseate  hue. 

The  children  in  the  streets,  the  little  mongrel  who 
crept  into  the  janitor's  lodge,  the  enormous  cat  who 
purred  on  the  window-sill,  the  monkey  who  skipped 
about  the  organ-grinder,  the  dark-browed  contadina 
who  carried  his  wares  to  the  mercato — in  fact,  every 
object,  animate  and  inanimate  in  nature,  breathed  but 
one  word:  that  word  was  love.  She  would  look  in  the 
faces  of  men  and  women,  and  say,  "  I  wonder  if  they 
are  as  happy  as  /  am;  if  any  one  in  the  world  loves  as 
I  love,  or  is  beloved  as  I  am  beloved  ?" 

One  day  she  was  more  than  usually  content.  She 
went  to  the  old  maestro's.  Tenderly  she  sat  down 
beside  his  bed.  The  little  birds  flew  to  greet  her. 
She  took  one  in  her  hand.  It  chirped  with  the  great- 
est earnestness,  as  if  it  were  trying  to  tell  her  some- 


402  Stage-Struck, 

thing;  then  it  flew  into  a  corner,  where  its  poor  little 
maimed  mate  dolefully  sat  moping.  The  maestro 
nodded  and  smiled;  then  he  explained.  By  some  mis- 
chance Marietta  had  dropped  him  from  her  lap.  He 
had  fallen  under  the  scuttle,  hence  his  crippled  state; 
but  the  other  one  never  left  the  corner.  In  misfortune 
they  clung  together. 

"  Cara  la  mia^  Annabellinaj  it  is  but  natural  they 
love." 

*' Even  the  little  passarelky'  she  murmured.  She 
had  seen  them  a  hundred  times,  and  never  before  had 
thought  of  their  loving  each  other.  Now  it  was  so 
plain;  everything  was  so  plain. 

She  commenced  to  sing.  Her  voice  had  gained 
color,  strength,  and  beauty.  After  the  usual  exer- 
cises, she  commenced  a  favorite  air  of  the  maestro's, 
the  "  Qui  la  voce"  from  "I  Puritani." 

Trivulsi,  like  all  great  teachers,  never  neglected  the 
classic  masters.  According  to  him,  they  alone  knew 
how  to  write  for  the  voice.  In  this  day  of  general 
emancipation,  piano-players  compose  operds  and  teach 
singing;  but  the  so-called  modern  music,  which  is  but 
the  mechanism  of  perfectly  constructed  scores,  has 
little  to  attract  or  sustain  the  voice.  An  artist  nowa- 
days must  outsing  a  hundred  instruments.  She  ac- 
companies the  band;  it  is  no  longer  a  question  of  the 
band  accompanying  her.  She  must  shriek,  scream — 
anything  to  make  herself  heard.  Verdi  commenced 
the  sensational  school;  but  things  have  gone  so  far 
beyond  him  that  his  worst  is  now  good  in  comparison. 
A  modern  opera  means  one  strain  of  melody,  begun 
at  the  sixth,  finished  before  the  thirty-second.     This 


Stage-Struck.  403 

one  theme  is  dragged  through  five  long  acts,  each 
act  serving  more  completely  to  disguise  and  confuse 
it.  One  spends  an  evening  listening,  perspiring, 
laboring,  struggling,  trying  to  catch  and  retain  one 
complete  phrase;  then,  when  the  opera  is  ended,  the 
listener  feels  a  neuralgic  pain  in  his  temples,  and  as 
though  his  teeth  were  falling  out  of  his  head.  When 
he  complains,  on  coming  out  of  the  opera,  that  he 
cannot  carry  away  one  single  air,  and  that  there  is  not 
one  glimmer  of  inspiration,  he  is  told  airs  are  vulgar, 
inspiration  a  mistake  of  the  past;  that  this  harmony 
is  correct,  and  that  perfection  in  music  consists  nowa- 
days in  disobeying  no  rule  of  composition,  and  in  hav- 
ing perfectly  orchestrated  scores. 

Annabel  had  always  sung  intelligently.  She  had 
sweetness  and  expression,  but  no  real  sentiment,  no 
heart.  There  was  something  always  wanting.  She 
sang  with  the  simplicity  of  a  child  rather  than  with 
the  awakened  feelings  of  a  woman.  But  now,  she 
could  not  tell  why,  she  only  knew  that  lately  every 
chord  of  her  being  had  vibrated  to  the  slightest  touch 
of  feeling. 

She  sang  the  andante^  "  Qui  la  voce,'*  2iS  Bellini  in- 
tended it  should  be  sung.  She  was  Elvira,  Brak  was 
Arturo.  She  worked  her  imagination  through  fancied 
reality  up  to  such  a  pitch  that  she  saw  herself  mad, 
abandoned,  and  crying  for  her  lover.  The  allegro  was 
not  less  impassioned.  When  she  finished  the  scena, 
Federico  turned  silently,  and  looked  at  her.  He  went 
to  the  window,  and  his  eye  unconsciously  wandered 
over  the  Lombardy  hills;  but  he  never  spoke  a  word. 
The  maestro  was   in  tears.     He   motioned  Annabel 


404  Stage-Struck. 

towards  him.  She  went  quickly  and  obediently, 
scarce  knowing  what  she  did. 

The  poor  old  paralytic  loved  her  so  truly,  so  fondly. 
He  took  her  hand,  and  drew  her  head  down  to  his; 
then  he  whispered,  "  Carina  mia,  I  have  divined  thy 
secret.  Couldst  thou  hope  to  hide  it  from  the  poor 
old  maestro,  who  has  read  the  pulsations  of  so  many 
a  child's  heart?  God  grant  thee  happiness!  Nay, 
nay;  tremble  not.  Thy  secret  is  safe  with  me.  Bend 
thy  head  nearer.  Be  happy,  and  tell  him  that  thy 
master  loves  him  for  thy  sake.  Heaven  bless  you 
both!" 

Without  a  word,  she  returned  to  the  piano,  beckoned 
to  Federico  to  take  his  place,  and  she  repeated  the  final 
allegro  of  the  scena.  The  notes  rang  out  strong,  clear, 
and  triumphant;  but,  above  all,  there  was  a  song  of 
triumph  in  her  heart.  She  loved  and  was  beloved, 
and  her  dear  master,  her  second  father,  had  given  her 
his  blessing.     The  secret.no  longer  corroded. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

The  following  day  she  received  a  note  from  the 
Agenzia  Benella,  asking  her  to  come  and  try  her  voice 
for  an  engagement  at  Nice. 

She  showed  it  to  Brak  in  the  greatest  delight.  "I 
must  go  at  once.  What  shall  I  sing?  Come,  try  this 
over,"  taking  a  lovely  ballad  of  Salina.  "  Then  you 
shall  choose  the  operatic  air.     I — " 

He  threw  the  note  in  the  fire.  "  You  are  not  going 
to  sing  at  any  agent's.     That  is  your  answer." 

"  Are  you  crazy  ?     I  must.     This  is  a  great  chance." 

"I  had  thought  that  you  would  give  up  the  idea  of 
singing;  at  least,  for  the  present.  I  want  you  all  to 
myself.  Stop!  Here  is  the  answer.  Write  that 
you — that  you  have  another  engagement." 

"Brak!"  indignantly.  "I  cannot  treat  anyone  in 
that  way.     You  are  unreasonable!" 

"  No,  I  am  not.  I  will  not  let  you  go.  We  must 
spend  all  of  our  time  together.  I  cannot  spare  my — 
my  sposina'' 

"  Shall  I  tell  them  that  ?"— playfully. 

He  looked  up  quickly.  "  For  Heaven's  sake,  no!" 
He  saw  that  she  was  jesting.  "  How  can  you  say  such 
a  thing  even  in  joke  ?" 

His  humor  surprised  her. 

"Forgive  me.  I  believe  I  am  nervous.  Fancy  a 
man  being  nervous!    Shall  I  play  to  you?    No.    What 


4o6  Stage-Struck. 

time  is  it?  Nearly  five  o'clock.  So  late  ?  I  must  go 
and  see  if  there  are  any  letters.  I  will  be  back  in  an 
hour  to  take  you  to  dine.  We  will  go  like  two  lovers  to 
a  new  restaurant.  I  have  found  out  a  new  one.  I  wish 
to  goodness  we  could  go  and  dine  like  Christians  at 
some  decent  cafi.  I  suppose,  however,  that  it  wouldn't 
do,  and  we  must  go  on  poisoning  ourselves  in  those 
wretched  pot-houses  outside  the  barriers,  so  as  not  to 
come  across  any  of  your  friends.  But  I  must  not  com- 
plain. There  is  really  something  deliciously  captivat- 
ing in  this  secrecy:  the  fear  that  I  may  not  have  you 
all  to  myself,  that  I  may  come  back  and  find  an  im- 
provised mamma  installed  at  home;  that  you  your- 
self, ambitious  little  wretch,  may  have  gone  off  to  sing 
in  some  one-horse  town,  leaving  me  in  the  lurch. 
This  is  a  terrible  thought!  You  see,  I  am  not  sure  of 
you." 

"  Not  with  this?"  turning  her  ring  around  on  her 
finger  and  laughing.  "  Perhaps  that  is  the  reason  you 
love  me  so  much.  I  have  heard  clever  women  say 
that  the  only  way  to  retain  a  man's  love  is  to  treat  him 
so  badly  that  he  feels  in  constant  danger  of  losing 
you.     What  was  that?" 

A  noise,  a  footstep  without,  startled  her.  She 
trembled  and  went  quickly  to  the  door.  Assured  that 
it  was  nothing,  she  came  back  to  his  side. 

"  I  start  at  the  slightest  sound.  What  if  mamma 
and  my  father  were  to  arrive  suddenly  ?  I  always 
think  I  can  hear  voices.  Even  a  brick  falling  in  the 
chimney  startles  me." 

"Naturally!     Enough  to  startle  any  one." 

"How  can  you  jest?    I  am  suddenly  grown  ner- 


Stage-Struck,  407 

vous;  the  least  thing  makes  me  start.  But  we  have 
not  decided  what  I  am  to  tell  mamma;  what  explana- 
tion I  am  to  give  her  for  having  seen  you  so  often." 

"I  have  decided,"  he  said  coolly;  "you  had  better 
not  even  mention  my  name — at  present." 

"Not  mention  your  name?  Oh,  that  is  nonsense! 
Besides,  she  will  know — the  servant,  the  concierge. 
She  may  have  heard  that  you  have  been  here;  that  we 
have  been  out  together.  Suppose  she  asks  one  or  the 
other  of  them  ?" 

"In  that  very  thing  your  safety  lies.  The  well-born 
domestic  has  a  character  of  gold;  besides  which,  the 
nature  of  the  servant  is  to  deny  from  principle,  to  lie 
from  habit.  As  a  study  of  nature,  I  have  discovered 
that  one  has  nothing  to  fear  from  any  one  of  them. 
They  will  never  betray  us,  because  it  is,  as  I  said,  a 
character  of  gold." 

She  laughed,  reassured. 

He  continued.  ^'■Apropos  of  the  anatomy  of  that 
branch  of  the  human  race,  were  I  a  woman  I  should 
be  much  puzzled.  We  know  the  period  of  gestation 
for  an  elephant,  for  a  hero,  a  serpent,  a  dog,  or  a  rab- 
bit; yet  great  scientists  have  failed  to  discover  the 
why,  when,  and  wherefore  of  the  domestic.  Cest  vrai- 
ment  une  nature  a  party 

"  I  think  you  might  get  some  enlightenment  from 
the  Commissioners  of  Emigration,  who  pay  five  yearly 
visits  to  Castle  Garden  in  New  York;  a  more  difficult 
problem  might  puzzle  them.  But  they  are  sure  to 
give  you  information  on  every  subject  out  of  their 
line  of  business.  It  has  usually  been  not  a  question 
of  how  domestics  come  into  a  new  world,  but  where 


408  Stage-Struck. 

they  are  going  to  put  them  when  they  get  there;  the 
latest  scheme  is  to  bring  the  far  West  to  New  York." 

"My  dear,  are  you  sure  ?  By  the  way,  you  never 
tell  me  anything  much  of  your  country." 

"  What!  tell  an  Englishman  anything  about  America? 
Besides,  one  day  you  enlightened  me  on  the  divorce 
question;  the  next  thing  I  shall  expect  a  dissertation 
on  Mormonism." 

"Ah!"  he  rejoined  indifferently.  "I  am  not  up  in 
that  American  product;  but  I  must  go,  or  we  shall 
have  no  dinner.  By  the  way,  I  must  put  you  on  your 
guard  against  three  creatures  who  might  betray  us." 

She  looked  pale. 

"  Yes;  I  refer  to  the  mongrel,  the  cat,  and  the 
monkey.  They  are  sure  to  know  me  whenever  we 
meet,  whether  in  this  life  or  in  the  next.  Strictly 
speaking,  they  are  animals,  but  they  merit  being 
human." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that" — laughing.  "  How  can 
we  be  sure  that  they  do  not  consider  us  great  fools  for 
being  human?  I  should  hate  to  insult  a  faithful  dog 
by  having  him  like  some  people  I  have  known." 

"  I  don't  so  much  mind  the  dog;  but  it  is  the  Dar- 
winian animal.  They  are  so  malicious.  A  monkey 
was  the  principal  witness  in  one  of  the  most  famous 
breach-of- promise  suits  ever  tried.  He  had  once 
snatched  a  bunch  of  flowers  from  a  lady's  hat  in  the 
Zoo.  The  lady's  companion  gave  him  a  rap,  and 
when  brought  into  court,  four  years  later,  the  creature's 
demonstrations  decided  for  the  lady.  The  man  had 
denied  even  the  promenade;  but  the  monkey  was  no 
Judas." 


Stage-Struck.  409 

She  interrupted.  *'  It  is  only  in  England  that  you 
have  got  *  lawering  '  down  to  such  a  fine  point.  Moral 
ladies  take  a   promenade  on  Sunday  in  the  Zoo." 

He  made  a  movement  as  if  to  go. 

"  What!  really  going  ?  How  strange!  I  hate  to 
have  you  leave  me." 

"  Oh,  you  call  that  strange!  Thanks.  It  has  come 
to  that.     Satiety  is  the  best  policy." 

"  No,  no;  it  is  not  that.  But  I  have  a — a  feeling, 
a  presentiment,  a — " 

"  Foolish  Annabel!  A  presentiment!  Perhaps  it 
is  your  conscience  ?" 

"  No;  I  am  not  ashamed  of  my  love  for  you." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  ?  Suppose  something  terrible 
were  to  happen;  that  we  should  grow  less  fond;  that 
— that  I  should  want  a  divorce;  that,  in  fact,  I  should 
leave  you:  would  you  know  regret  for  having  loved 
me;  remorse  that  you  did  not  know  how  to  keep  me 
for  ever  enchained  at  your  side  ?" 

She  smiled.  "  No,  no,  no;  I  have  adopted  the  word 
invented  by  a  good  friend  of  mine,  a  man  of  won- 
drous knowledge  of  life  and  the  world.  Major  Alex- 
ander knows  /remorse,  but  never  remorse.  If  one  of 
his  natural  fineness  can  accept  and  utilize  the  word,  I 
also  may  accept  and  use  it." 

"  Naturally.  That  is  a  nice  friend  of  yours.  Is 
there  any  other  little  safety-valve  in  the  moral  branch 
of  your  education  ?  You  have  been  brought  up  in  a 
fine  school.  Decidedly  ^ genre  Byroriic'  I  must  go. 
No,  you  will  not  let  me."  He  rushed  away.  "I  will 
be  back  in  twenty  minutes.     Do  be  ready." 

She  sighed  and  clung  to  him.     "  I  wish  we  were  not 


4 1  o  Stage-Struck, 

dining  out.  We  have  always  been  so  happy  here.  I 
like  this  room,  now — now  that  everything  in  it  speaks 
of  you." 

She  kissed  him,  and  looked  lovingly  around.  He 
came  back  and  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Dearest  Annabel,  I  see  you  are  determined  not  to 
let  me  go;  but —     Shall  we  dine  or  not  ?" 

"Yes." 

She  stood  near  the  window.  He  wen  up  to  her 
again. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  lines  in  '  Parisina*  ?  Your 
looking  around;  my  coming  back.  Listen."  Then 
he  quoted,  as  he  always  had  a  fashion  of  doing: 

"  '  With  many  a  lingering  look  they  leave. 

The  frequent  sigh,  the  long  embrace, 
But  binds  them  to  their  try  sting- place. 
But  it  must  come,  and  they  must  part, 
In  fearful  heaviness  of  heart.'  " 

He  finished: 

**  '  With  all  the  deep  and  shuddering  chill 
Which  follows  fast  the  deeds  of  ill.'" 

"Oh!  not  that.  What  a  frightful  quotation!" 
"Not  frightful," — coolly, — "but  antique.  Pity  poor 
Hugo  and  Parisina.  They  lived  in  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury; your  word  '  premorse' was  invented  in  the  nine- 
teenth. But  I  must  go."  He  finally  tore  himself 
away  with  one  last  kiss.  "  Be  sure  and  be  ready  in 
twenty  minutes." 

On  Brak's  return,  Annabel  had  her  bonnet  on,  and 
they  started  off  to  dine.     All  his  gayety  was  gone,  and 


Stage-Struck.  41 1 

on  their  way  he  hardly  said  a  word.  When  they 
reached  the  restaurant,  he  abused  the  waiters,  and  the 
food,  and  everything  else. 

Annabel  felt  that  something  had  annoyed  him.  She 
spoke.  "  What  is  the  matter,  Brak  ?  You  seem  in  a 
bad  temper." 

"When  is  your  mother  coming  back  ?"  he  answered 
curtly. 

*'  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  in  a  fortnight.  You 
remember  that  it  will  be  necessary  then  to  tell  her 
that  we  are  married." 

*'  Annabel,  I  repeat  again  you  must  tell  her  nothing 
until  I  give  you  permission.  You  must  not  even  say 
that  I  have  been  here." 

She  opened  her  violet  eyes  to  their  widest.  "  Have 
been!  Why,  you  still  will  be  here.  You  are  not  going 
away  ?" 

He  went  up  to  the  fireplace,  and  leaned  moodily 
against  the  chimney.  "Yes.  I — I  must  go  away  at 
once — to  England — " 

"Oh,  Brak,  you're  not  going  to  leave  me!"  She 
rushed  up  to  him,  and  threw  her  arms  around  his 
neck. 

"  It  will  not  be  for  long."  He  unloosed  her  arms. 
"Mind,  the  waiter  may  come  in."  Then  went  on. 
"  You  know  I  told  you  about  my  uncle.  I  found  a 
telegram  at  the  post-office,  telling  me  that  he  was  ill, 
and  I  must  hurry  back  at  once." 

Annabel  could  scarcely  restrain  l^rself  from  burst- 
ing into  tears.  It  was  not  so  much  the  surprise  as 
something  in  his  manner  that  seemed  strange  and 
unnatural. 


412  Stage-Struck, 

"Could  you  not  take  me  with  you?  I  will  promise 
that  no  one,  not"  even  mamma,  shall  know  that  I  am 
in  England,  until  you  allow  me  to  say  that  we  are 
married." 

Brak  hesitated.  Then  he  took  out  a  cigarette.  He 
lit  it  and  reflected.  "  No,"  at  length  he  said;  "  it  will 
be  better  for  you  to  remain  here.  I  shall  not  be  away 
one  day  longer  than  is  absolutely  necessary;  and  per- 
haps when  I  come  back  all  concealment  will  be  at  an 
end." 

She  sighed.  His  going  away  was  terrible;  and  to 
keep  their  marriage  a  secret  filled  her  heart  with  dread. 
Still,  she  thought,  she  was  his  wife;  she  must  obey. 

Little  more  was  said  during  dinner  or  as  they  went 
home.  Once  there,  Annabel  busied  herself  about  the 
room,  which  no  longer  looked  cheerful  now  that  Brak 
was  going.  She  went  and  put  her  arms  around  his 
neck. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  '*how  little  we  thought  when  we 
were  last  here  that  we  were  so  soon  to  be  parted!" 
The  tears  welled  into  her  eyes.  "  Must  you  really  go  ? 
Can't  you  put  it  off  ?" 

"  You  little  silly!  do  you  think  I  would  go  if  I  could 
help  it  ?" 

Annabel  had  so  hastily  pulled  off  her  bonnet  that 
her  hair  had  fallen  over  her  shoulders.  Brak  care- 
lessly took  up  a  lock  and  gently  drew  it  through  his 
fingers.     Then  he  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 

"  Darling,  I  must  take  this  away  with  me." 

"  Why  should  you  ?  You'll  only  be  away  for  a  few 
days.  Besides,  I  am  superstitious  about  it.  I  have 
always  heard  that  it  brings  bad  luck  to  give  away  a 


Stage-Struck.  4 1 3 

lock  of  one's  hair.  What  if  I  should  never  see  you 
again  ?  Oh,  I  can't  bear  the  thought!"  Her  arms 
stole  softly  around  his  neck. 

Brak  was  torn  by  conflicting  emotions.  He  thought, 
what  if  they  never  should  meet  again  ?  and  he  realized 
to  the  full  that  if  this  were  to  be,  life  would  be  a  blank 
indeed. 

She  murmured,  "  Why  will  you  go  ?  I  love  you  so, 
I  can't  live  without  you.  Yet  if  you  must  go,  can't 
you  take  me  with  you  .?" 

"  Oh,  if  I  only  could!  But  do  not  urge  me,  darling. 
It  is  difficult  enough  to  leave  you."  He  kissed  away 
her  tears.  "  Don't  cry.  I  can  bear  anything  but 
your  crying.  Now,  don't  make  a  scene.  You  know 
I  am  coming  back  very  soon." 

He  threw  himself  moodily  into  a  chair  before  the 
fire.  For  long  he  was  absorbed  in  thought,  smoking 
cigarette  after  cigarette.  At  length  she  could  bear  it 
no  longer. 

"Speak  to  me,  Brak,"  she  said.  "Tell  me  that  you 
love  me.  What  shall  I  do  while  you  are  away  ?  It 
seems  so  soon,  so  soon  for  us  to  part.  Something 
may  happen.  I  feel  as  if  I  should  never  see  you  again. 
It  is  like  a  dream,  all  that  has  happened." 

Brak  pressed  her  again  and  again  to  his  arms,  and 
tenderly  smoothed  her  hair.  "  Cheer  up,  little  woman ! 
You  know  that  I  would  not  go  if  it  were  not  absolutely 
necessary.  Don't  fret,  and  don't  talk  nonsense  about 
our  never  seeing  each  other  again.  I  shall  be  back 
soon,  and  then  I'll  never  leave  you.  Don't  you  know 
that  I  have  but  one  real  thought  in  the  world — your- 
self?   Yet  you  fret." 


414  Stage-Struck. 

"  I  don't  complain,  dear;  but  it  does  seem  hard. 
Will  you  promise  to  think  of  me  everyday,  and  every 
hour,  and  every  minute  while  you  are  away  ?" 

"  You  know  I  will,  and  every  second  too."  He  an- 
swered this  half  smiling.  *'  Never  has  a  man  loved  a 
woman  as  I  love  you." 

"Will  you  promise  not  to  even  look  at  another  while 
you  are  away  ?" 

"  How  could  I  ?  Besides,  you  know,  I  have  your 
photograph.  It  has  never  left  me  since  I  took  it  from 
Annie." 

"  Have  you  got  it  with  you  ?     Let  me  see  it." 

He  drew  it  from'  his  cigarette-case  and  showed  it  to 
her.  Then  one  arm  slipped  half  unknowingly  around 
her  slender  waist — slipped  there  and  stayed  there. 
The  very  unconsciousness  of  the  gesture  was  a  proof 
of  his  love. 

"  Why!  is  it  possible  I  ever  looked  like  that  ?  But 
then  that  picture  never  did  do  me  justice.  I'll  give 
you  a  better  one — at  any  rate,  it's  much  prettier.  But 
before  I  get  it,  tell  me  something — how  much  you  love 
me." 

For  answer  he  kissed  her,  fondly  murmuring,  "  As 
though  I  could  ever  tell  how  much!  But  give  me  the 
other  picture." 

She  ran  to  fetch  it. 

He  looked  at  it.  "  By  Jove!  that  is  a  jolly  good  one. 
But  I  like  the  old  one.  I  had  that  first,  you  know. 
However,  I'll  keep  them  both." 

"  As  you  will.     But  pay  me.     You  know  how." 

He  paid  her  in  love's  small  currency,  and  she  went 
on; 


Stage-Struck,  415 

"  When  will  you  write  to  me  ?" 

"  Oh,  in  a  few  days." 

*'A  few  days!  How  can  you  be  so  cruel!  Now, 
Brak,  I  sha'n't  let  you  leave  me  unless  you  promise  me 
faithfully  to  write  at  least  twice  a  day;  although,  if 
you  really  care  for  me,  you  need  not  tie  yourself  down 
to  this." 

"  But  what  can  I  write  about  ?  I  shall  have  no  fresh 
news  to  tell  you  so  often." 

"  News!  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  news.  Tell  me 
the  same  thing  in  every  letter — that  you  care  more  for 
me  than  you  ever  cared  for  any  woman  before;  and 
repeat  it  in  a  P.S.,  if  you  like." 

"Oh,  that  will  be  easy  enough,  that's  the  truth; 
and  I  am  like  a  woman  :  I  always  add  a  P.S."  Then 
he  lit  another  cigarette. 

"  If  you  only  cared  half  as  much  for  me  as  you  do 
for  tobacco,  I  should  be  happy." 

"  Nonsense!  I  smoke  because — because  it's  a  habit, 
I  suppose." 

"  And  habit,  they  say,  is  stronger  than  love.  You 
must  get  into  the  habit  of  loving  me." 

And  so  the  evening  wore  away.  It  was  much  the 
same  with  them  as  with  other  lovers.  It  was  the  old, 
old  tale.  They  quarrelled  and  made  up  again;  they 
vowed  and  they  swore  eternal  love;  they  planned  and 
mapped  out  the  future;  they  kissed  and  they  coaxed; 
they  flirted  and  they  coquetted,  as  though  the  world 
held  but  them,  and  that  no  two  human  beings  ever 
could  love  as  they  did. 

Annabel  had  been,  as  usual  with  women,  the  one  to 
show  the  most  feeling.     Brak  was  very  thoughtful, 


41 6  Stage-Struck, 

however,  and  at  the  last,  to  her  surprise,  he  showed 
that  he  was  really  cut  up.  Then,  of  course,  she  broke 
down.  He  wound  his  arms  about  her  and  kissed  her 
for  the  last  time,  murmuring  again, 

"  Cheer  up,  little  woman!  I  don't  want  to  go.  I 
swear  I  love  you  more  than  I  ever  loved  any  one  in 
this  world  before.  Can't  you  see  ?  Haven't  you  seen 
it  from  the  first  ?  Be  a  good  girl,  and  let  me  find  you, 
when  I  come  back,  the  same  cheery  Annabel  I  have 
always  known;  not  as  you  are  now." 

She  clung  about  his  neck,  sobbing. 

*'  Don't  make  a  scene."  He  kissed  her  tears  away. 
"  Now,  do  be  brave,  and  I'll  be  back  before  you've  had 
time  to  realize  that  I  have  been  away.  Good-by. 
Don't  fret.  God  bless  you.  I  love  you  more  than 
ever.     Don't  forget  to  write." 

When  she  heard  the  door  close  after  him,  she  fell 
sobbing  on  her  bed.  How  she  loved  him!  And  he 
was  gone! 

The  next  morning  Brak  left  Milan. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

"  Annabel,  Annabel !" 

"  Yes.     What  is  it  ?" 

"  It's  I — Alice  Weiss.     Can  I  come  in  ?" 

Annabel  got  up.and  unbolted  her  door.  Alice  came 
in.     She  looked  about  timidly,  then  seated  herself. 

"I  hope  I  don't  disturb  you.  But  we  were  anxious, 
— the  maestro,  Federico,  and  I, — so  I  have  come  to  see 
what  is  the  matter." 

It  was  the  day  following  Brak's  departure. 

"  I  am  well;  but  I  have  had  a  terrible  headache. 
How  kind  of  you  to  come,  and  how  sweet  of  the  maes- 
tro!    I  won't  miss  my  lessons  to-morrow." 

Alice  drew  up  to  the  chimney,  in  which  a  few  logs 
were  cheerlessly  smouldering.  She  poked  the  fire 
vigorously. 

"It  is  real  mean  of  this  wood  not  to  burn  more 
brightly;  on  such  a  cold  day,  too.  By  the  way,  you 
have  not  been  out.  I  stopped  to  see  the  cathedral. 
You  know  it  is  the  fete  of  San  Carlo  Borromeo.  I  never 
saw  anything  so  splendid." 

"Oh!" 

"Yes;  all  the  church  is  hung  with  superb  paintings, 
— scenes  in  his  life,  you  know, — with  gorgeous  red  ban- 
ners, and  I  don't  know  what  else;  the  whole  Duomo 
looks  red.  I  went  down  into  the  crypt  to  see  his  body. 
There  he  lies,  my  dear,  with  his  funny  little  head  on  a 


4 1 8  Stage-Struck. 

cushion,  in  a  gold  and  silver  coffin.  Such  robes,  such 
exquisite  jewels,  all  buried  in  a  tomb!  There  is  across 
of  emeralds  that  Maria  Theresa  sent;  it  is  worth  half 
a  million  francs.  It  dangles  over  his  body."  She  con- 
tinued, poking  the  fire:  "It's  a  lucky  thing  I  hate 
emeralds,  or  I  should  surely  have  envied  that  cross.  I 
suppose  he  was  a  great  man.  You  remember  about 
the  pest  in  Milan  ages  ago,  and  so  on  ?" 

"Yes." 

^^  A propos  of  pest,  Lara  has  an  engagement,  or  thinks 
that  she  has,  to  sing  *  \  promessi  sposi^'  at  Piacenza.  She 
will  look  funny  with  a  nurse's  head-dress;  won't  she  ? 
I  cannot  make  out  how  on  earth  a  woman  can  ever  lie 
down  with  those  silver  things  braided  in  her  hair  for 
a  year  at  a  time,  and  those  winged  spikes  protruding 
behind  each  ear;  and  then  to  be  obliged  to  wear  hid- 
eous wooden  shoes  besides !  Annabel !  Annabel !  Are 
you  not  well  ?" 

"  I — yes — no.     I  have  the  blues." 

"  Come  out  and  walk,"  she  added  quickly.  "  Come 
and  see  the  red  hangings  in  the  church.  They  are  so 
cheerful.  It  will  do  you  good.  But  I  have  brought  you 
something." 

"Dear  little  Alicia,  what  is  it?" 

"  Nothing  much;  only  a  medal  of  San  Carlo.  It  has 
been  blessed  by  the  cardinal,  and — and  it  is  intended 
to  bring  peace  and  comfort." 

Annabel  snatched  it.  "Alice,  you  dear  child  !"  kiss- 
ing both  her  and  the  medal;  "how  could  you  think  to 
bring  me  so  sweet  a  souvenir  ?  " 

"Because  it  was  the  nicest  thing  I  could  get  for  my 
five  sous.     I  wanted  to  bring  you  something." 


Stage-Struck,  419 

"  You  dear,  unselfish  child  !  It  has  done  me  good  to 
see  you.     I  am  indeed  lonely  to-day,"  she  sighed. 

"When  does  your  mamma  return  ?" 

"  In  her  last  she  said  that  she  might  come  in  about 
a  fortnight;  my  dear  father  is  much  better,  and  she 
can  now  leave  him." 

"  Won't  you  be  glad  to  have  her  back  ?  How  lonely 
you  must  have  been  !  We  have  seen  you  nowhere 
lately." 

Annabel  started.  Could  Alice,  could  any  one  sus- 
pect ?  She  awaited  breathlessly  Alice's  concluding  re- 
marks. 

"  Nowhere.  Of  course  I  knew  you  were  studying 
in  the  evenings,  and  that  you  spent  your  days  at  the 
maestro's.  I  dined  with  Mrs.  Manners  last  night  at 
the  boarding-house." 

"  Did  any  one  speak  of  me  ?" 

*'  Oh,  they  all  spoke  of  you,  and  wondered  what  had 
become  of  you.  I  told  them.  It  was  a  very  good  din- 
ner," Alice  gossiped  on;  "and  we  had  some  blown-up 
stuff  for  dessert  which  would  have  been  perfectly  ele- 
gant, but  Paolo  burned  it.  Mr.  Fay's  voice  has  come 
back  beautiful.  But  something  very  triste  is  happening. 
Do  you  remember  that  lovely  dark-eyed  girl  who 
came  here  with  a  friend  to  study  singing  ?  She  had 
been  in  Milan  three  months,  when  she  came  to  the 
boarding-house." 

"  Yes;  I  remember  her.     What  about  her  ?" 

"  She  is  very  ill;  the  doctors  say  she  cannot  get 
well.  Genevieve  and  Lara  watch  with  her  day  and 
night.  She  is  so  beautiful.  I  went  to  the  door,  but 
she  was  delirious  and  did  not  recognize  me.      Her 


420  Stage-Struck, 

black  hair  rolled  all  over  the  pillows,  and  her  hands 
kept  picking  at  the  bedclothes.  They  wondered 
where  her  rings  were — you  know  she  had  beautiful 
jewelry.  There  was  an  Italian  baron  hanging  around — " 

"A  baron?  Was  it  not  a  count  ?"  Annabel  then 
remembered  to  have  heard  something  about  Count 
Arani's  attention  to  another  American.  "Count 
Arani,  was  it  ?" 

"  He  may  be  a  count  in  some  place  else,  but  he  is  a 
baron  at  the  boarding-house.  He  comes  so  often  to 
ask  about  her  that  every  one  is  enraged.  Do  you 
know  what  they  say  about  the  affair  ?"  Alice  dropped 
her  voice  to  an  awful  whisper.  She  continued:  "  They 
say  that  she  was  in  love  with  him;  that  he  has  taken 
all  of  her  money,  and  made  her  sell  or  pawn  all  of 
her  jewelry;  that  he  promised  to  marry  her,  and  he 
never  will.  And,"  the  voice  still  lower,  "  something 
else  has  happened — you  know  what." 

Annabel  started  sharply  forward.  "  Alice,  how  can 
you  say  such  things  ?  This  is  horrible  !  horrible  ! 
And  do  they  really  believe  that — that  at  the  Pensione  ? 
Poor  thing  !  poor  young  woman  !  I  have  often  seen 
her.  Such  a  pretty  name — Letty  Morris;  such  a  lovely, 
good  girl,  too  !" 

Annabel  walked  about  the  room  with  quick,  ner- 
vous steps.  How  strange  that  she  should  hear  this 
to-day  !  The  story  struck  a  chill  to  her  heart.  She 
clasped  her  hands  tightly  together.  Surely  an  all- 
wise  Providence  had  thrown  a  gentleman  in  her  path 
— a  man  of  lionor.  That  vile  count !  She  shuddered, 
still  speaking.  "  Poor  thing  !"  her  thoughts  immedi- 
ately reverting  to  Letty. 


St  age-Struck.  42 1 

AKce  continued.  "Every  one  is  so  interested;  but 
they  are  all  angry  with  Mr.  Randall,  the  consul.  No 
one  knows  why.  He  has  been  so  good  and  kind  to 
dozens  of  Americans.  By  the  way,  the  Amorino  is 
going  to  sing  here  in  Milan.  Did  I  ever  tell  you 
about  her  d&ut  at  Malta  ?" 

Annabel  was  not  unwilling  to  change  the  subject. 

Alice  went  on.  "When  she  sang  in  *  La  Traviata,' 
her  success  was  wonderful.  She  changed  her  cadenzas 
every  performance,  and  people  came  just  to  hear  that. 
It  was  what  Malibran  did,  you  know.  People  would 
say,  *  I  wonder  whether  the  Amorino  will  finish  on 
upper  E  flat  to-night,  or  trill  on  D  and  E  above  the 
line.'  She  had  beautiful  scales, — yards  of  them, — and 
she  sang  them  going  up  just  like  a  rush  of  wind.  That 
was  Lamperti — Lamperti's  diaphragmatic  method, 
you  know.  And  the  strange  thing  was  that  she  did 
this  without  realizing  what  it  meant,  for  she  had  not 
yet  studied  with  him.  Her  voice  was  then  so  natural 
and  sweet.  He*-  death-scene  was  so  wonderful  and 
real  that  the  whole  of  Malta  was  excited  over  it.  You 
know  there  are  lots  of  officers  in  Malta,  besides  a 
large  colony  of  English.  The  theatre  was  always 
jammed,  and  one  night  there  were  twelve  great  doc- 
tors to  decide  on  her  acting.  The  last  scene  was  so 
real  that  they  thought  she  was  dead.  These  physi- 
cians were  in  different  parts  of  the  house,  so  as  to 
judge  impartially  the  scene  from  every  point.  A 
great  scream  rose  from  the  audience  when  she  died. 
You  know  she  was  such  a  natural  actress  that  when 
but  three  years  of  age  she  recited  a  dramatic  piece  so 
well  that  every  one  under  his  breath  said  *  Rachel ! 


422  Stage-Struck. 

Rachel !'  when  she  passed  by.  Naturally  she  did 
*La  Traviata '  in  this  same  way.  She  always  refused 
to  come  before  the  curtain  after  the  last  act;  it  spoiled 
the  illusion.  So  they  kept  applauding,  screaming, 
and  waving  handkerchiefs,  and  there  was  such  fright 
and  excitement  in  the  house,  as  she  was  thought  to 
be  really  dead,  that  the  twelve  doctors  went  on  the 
stage  and  insisted  that  she  should  come  to  the  front, 
to  show  that  she  was  alive.  They  said  they  had  seen 
death  in  all  its  forms  at  the  hospitals,  but  never  any- 
thing to  equal  her  scena^  and  she  acted  it  to  the  life." 

"  What  a  triumph  for  an  artist !"  said  Annabel, 
interestedly.    "  I  wonder  they  omitted  the  post  mortem" 

The  word  staggered  Alice;  but  she  continued 
bravely,  "  I  don't  think  they  omitted  anything;  and 
she  finally  had  to  come  to  the  front.  Why,  the  whole 
audience  sat  there.  They  refused  to  leave  the  house, 
thinking  her  dead;  but  finally  they  got  them  all  out 
of  the  theatre.     Lovely  success,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"  I  should  think  so.  She  must  be  a  wonderful  ar- 
tist. But  are  you  quite  sure?  It  seems  a  trifle — ^just 
a  trifle — exaggerated.     Who  told  you  about  it?" 

"Am  I  sure?  Who  told  me?  Why,  she  told  me 
herself;  otherwise,  how^  could  I  ever  have  known  it  so 
accurately  ?  I  had  the  whole  story  from  her  own  lips. 
But  any  one  else  will  tell  you  the  same  thing.  All 
Milan  knows  it." 

Annabel  sighed.  She  wondered  if  she  would  ever 
have  twelve  doctors  consulting  after  one  of  her  scenes 
to  know  if  she  were  really  dead. 

It  was  just  possible.  It  sometimes  takes  quite  as 
many  to  consult  on  a  less  extraordinary  case,  and  even 


I 


Stage-Struck.  423 

then  they  cannot  agree.  The  wonderful  thing  was 
that  these  twelve  agreed — appalling  case  of  unanimity, 
quite  enough  in  itself  to  prove  fatal  to  the  patient. 

She  said  as  much. 

Alice  spoke.  ''  E/i  effet.  She  has  never  sung  since. 
Oh  !" — jumping  up — "I  am  an  idiot !  I  have  a  letter 
for  you,  sent  to  the  maestro's  care,  and  here  it  is.  I 
had  nearly  forgotten  it." 

Annabel  took  it  eagerly.  "  It  is  from  Australia — 
from  Victor  Angel." 

Alice  interrupted.  "  Please  may  I  have  the  postage- 
stamp  ?  I  am  making  a  collection  for  my  little  brother." 

Annabel  handed  it  to  her,  and  began  aloud.  It  was 
a  long  letter,  quite  in  his  well-known  style. 

"Melbourne,  September,  '76. 
"My  dear  Miss  Annabel: 

"  I  have  been  here  so  long  without  writing  that 
I  am  almost  ashamed  now  to  send  a  letter.  But  here 
goes.  We  had  a  fine  trip — lovely.  Met  dozens  of 
whales  and  shoals  of  dolphins.  Sea  like  a  mill-pond 
most  of  the  way.  We  got  to  land,  and  put  in  Port 
Philip,  after  a  splendid  sail  up  Hobson's  Bay.  For 
the  first  time  in  my  life  I  saw  a  moon  worth  looking 
at — I  never  saw  anything  so  big,  and  never  expect  to 
again.  I  tell  you  that  the  Australian  moon  beats 
the  American  all  hollow.  They  ought  to  have  it  for 
Central  Park.  It  would  save  those  mile-apart  lamp- 
posts I  last  saw  there,  and  give  the  foot-pads  a  heap 
more  light,  more  legitimate  encouragement.  This  is 
a  lovely  place — God's  own  climate.  Of  course  you 
want  to  hear  about  my  voice  the  first  thing.     Tell  all 


424  Stage-Struck, 

of  this  to  the  maestro,  because  I  have  not  had  time 
to  write  him,  and  I  don't  want  him  to  think  me  mean. 
I  don't  hide  from  you  that  I  owe  him  a  debt  beyond 
that  of  gratitude — as  my  last  lessons  are  not  paid  for.  • 
Well,  about  the  voce.  You  remember,  I  sang  near 
Naples  before  leaving  Europe;  and  you  knowthat  Al- 
fredo is  a  low,  miserable,  abominable  rdlel  Natural- 
ly, a  man  with  my  artistic  temperament  and  instincts 
could  make  nothing  out  of  it;  that  failure  never 
scathed  me.  I  would  have  felt  hurt  to  have  'bursted  * 
as  Manrico.  But,  now  I  think  it  over,  it  would  be  a 
lasting  disgrace  to  have  been  a  good  Alfredo.  He  is 
the  most  aniipatico  of  all  stage-heroes.  I  opened  here 
with  a  lower-pitched  rdle — as  Fra  Diavolo,  in  fact.  It 
is  more  robusfo,  and  it  would  have  scored  a  triumph 
but  for  one  thing,  or  perhaps  two.  I  caught  cold 
coming  from  the  last  rehearsal;  and  then  the  boys  and 
I  had  a  supper,  to  celebrate  the  success  I  was  to  have 
the  next  day.  My  throat  got  choked  up;  and  the 
night-air,  always  heavenly  in  Australia,  was  something 
vile  on  that  special  occasion.  Just  my  luck.  Even 
Nature  seemed  to  conspire  against  me;  it  was  hatched 
up  purposely  to  spoil  my  debut.  I  only  sang  once,  and 
even  my  friends  thought  it  was  not  a  big  success.  In 
fact,  it  was  such  a  failure  that  no  one  but  an  American 
would  keep  on  after.  Well,  we  know  that  success  is 
built  on  failures.  Perhaps  you  think  I  took  it  to 
heart?  On  the  contrary,  I  was  almost  glad.  A  bad 
beginning  makes  a  good  ending.  Imagine  what  a 
triumph  when  I  do  succed!  (which,  of  course,  will  be 
in  my  next  r6le.)  The  phoenix  rising  from  her  ashes 
will  be  nowhere  as   compared   to  it,  etc.  etc.      The 


St  age-Struck.  425 

manager  is  an  awfully  good  fellow.  I  had  another 
chance,  which  doesn't  count.  To  oblige  him,  I  con- 
sented to  a  thing  which  no  circumstances  should  have 
induced  me  to  consider.  I  sang  Hoel — high  baritone 
transposed — and — will  you  believe  it? — the  extra  effort 
of  working  my  voice  into  another  groove,  and  chang- 
ing my  sentiments,  making  love  as  a  baritone  instead 
of  being  a  tenor,  so  upset  me  that  I  had  a  real  nervous 
crisis  before  I  went  upon  the  stage.  Had  to  jab  a 
circular  row  of  morphine  punctures  from  my  thighs 
to  my  knees.  In  consequence,  not  being  in  my  normal 
condition,  I  did  not  create  ih.Q  fanattsmo  I  should  other- 
wise have  done.  Besides,  I  hate  that  part !  Hoel's 
a  fool,  and  Dinorah  a  mad  woman  !  A  nice  couple, 
taken  all  in  all,  with  that  idiot  Correntin  thrown  in 
gratis  for  all  the  family  party. 

"  Since  the  last  few  days,  I  am  beginning  to  feel  a 
little  depressed.  As  I  am  not  the  star,  I  cannot  boss 
the  managers  and  impose  myself  upon  the  public. 
The  theatrical  career  is  only  possible  under  those  cir- 
cumstances. Of  course,  later  on  I  shall  be  able  to 
command.  Oh,  the  joy  of  that  thought !  I  am  also 
a  little  down,  now,  because  of  a  poor  devil  whose  body 
has  just  gone  back  to  Europe.  People  come  here  to 
get  cured  of  every  disease,  particularly  consumption. 
Those  who  get  well  are  quite  content;  but  it  must 
make  a  man  mighty  mad  to  go  sixteen  thousand  miles 
out  of  his  way  to  die.  That's  what  this  poor  fellow 
did.  His  brother,  Bayman,  could  well  be  spared  to 
take  his  body  back.  Lestun,  the  manager,  called 
him  a  nice  man,  but  a  twenty-four  carat  duffer  as  a 
singer.     Thank  Heaven  !  no  one  ever  said  that  about 


426  Stage-Struck. 

me.  There  are  some  remarks  which  even  blood  could 
not  wipe  out:  that  is  one.  The  opera,  to  return  to 
the  strict  legitimate,  is  perfectly  elegant,  and  the  thea- 
tre just  scrumptious.  People  are  somewhat  mixed, 
but  charming;  audiences,  tip-top. 

"  The  old  house,  built  of  corrugated  iron  brought 
from  England,  and  called  'The  Iron  Pot,'  was  burned 
down,  years  ago.  It  was  in  that  theatre  that  Catherine 
Hayes  sang,  and  they  gave  polyglot  opera  afterwards, 
with  Madame  Anna  Bishop.  The  solo  artists  sang  in 
Italian,  American,  German,  French,  Belgian,  and 
Swede;  the  chorists,  in  all  tongues.  By  George  !  I 
would  like  to  have  heard  it.  They  had  a  good  orches- 
tra of  about  eighteen;  and  one  man  who  played  with 
Jenny  Lind  in  America.  N.B. — History  does  not  tell 
how  many  accompanied  her,  yet  I  swear  he  is  at  least 
the  nineteenth  flutist  whom  I  have  known  personally 
to  have  played  all  of  her  solos  on  Barnum's  famous 
tour.  However,  that  is  a  mere  bagatelle.  The  man 
plays  well  now,  when  he  is  not  full — full  of  anything 
you  like — conceit  or  beer. 

"The  first  time  I  saw  Melbourne,  it  reminded  me  of 
Tottenham  Court  Road  on  a  Saturday  night.  Lots  of 
things  for  sale;  and  such  quantities  of  delicious  fruit; 
so  cheap.  I  carried  home  an  armful.  It  is  a  charm- 
ing place.  Besides,  the  whole  of  Australia  is  a  big 
scheme.  There's  lots  of  money  to  be  made  here,  engi- 
neering; but,  of  course,  I  am  such  a  long  way  out  of 
my  old  track.     I  have  done  with  that  for  ever. 

"  I  don't  ask  how  you  are.  I  know  that  every  one 
in  Milan — the  Americans,  I  mean — are  getting  on  well. 
Oh,  I   forgot   poor  James  !    What   was  the   matter  ? 


Stage-Struck.  427 

Which  madhouse  did  they  send  him  to  ?  Lansini 
wrote  me  all  about  it.  I  said  he  was  half-cracked 
when  I  saw  him;  besides,  he  came  from  Indiana,  and 
I  never  yet  knew  any  tenor  to  leave  that  place  alive 
without  he  left  either  brains  or  voice  behind  him. 
How  is  your  mother,  your  father,  and  everybody  ?  I 
send  my  kindest  regards  to  all,  and  my  very  best 
wishes.  This  is  a  pretty  long  letter  for  me,  but  I  only 
inflict  yearly  epistles.  I  await  my  next  appearance 
with  anxiety.  I  never  know  two  days  ahead  what  I  am 
going  to  do.  You  see,  they  make  use  of  me.  I  am 
such  a  quick  study.  A  manager  throws  me  a  part,  as 
he  would  a  bone  to  a  dog.  I  never  advise  any  one  to 
have  a  phenomenal  voice  like  mine,  added  to  my  wish 
to  make  myself  useful.  What  rdle  do  you  sing  next  ? 
I  hope  you  will  have  a  lovely  success.  I  suppose  the 
students  are  all  just  the  same — no  money,  no  scrttiur as ^ 
to  speak  of.  What  a  life — always  waiting  for  another 
Carnival !  Thank  goodness  !  at  least,  I  am  out  of 
Milan.  I  had  rather  starve  in  Australia  than  have  a 
piano  nobile  over  the  Duomo.  The  climate  and  the 
people  are  just  lovely  here.  Good-by  at  last.  This  is 
a  tearing  long  letter,  but  I  will  send  it  just  the  same. 
Best  wishes  again,  and  regards  to  all.  Love  to  the 
Severns,  if  you  ever  write. 

"  From  your  ever-devoted  friend, 

"Victor  Angel, 
"  Prima  Artista,  Royal  Opera,  Melbourne." 

Annabel  had  read  the  letter  with  the  greatest  in- 
terest. Alice  was  delighted  to  hear  from  Mr.  Angel. 
Such  a  good  fellow  ;  so  frank ;  always  the  same  ! 


428  Stage-Struck, 

"It  is  only  a  pity,"  she  said,  "that  a  man  with  his 
talent  can  never  get  a  real  chance;  and  even  his  voice 
keeps  changing."     Alice  was  really  interested. 

"I  think," answered  Annabel,  "that  that  is  the  kind 
of  voice  he  has.  There  certainly  is  variety  enough 
about  it.  What!  are  you  going?"  Alice  was  draw- 
ing on  her  one-franc  dog-skin  gloves.  "Well,  good- 
by.  Thanks,  so  much,  for  your  visit.  I  shall  be  at 
the  maestro's  early  to-morrow,  and  this  evening  I  am 
going  to  the  boarding-house.  I  must  pay  Paolina  a 
visit.  She  is  such  a  dear,  good  girl.  Good-by,  then, 
until  the  morning." 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

"  To  Noel  Brakenston^  Esq.^  Gar  rick  Club,  London  : 

"  How  strange  it  seems  to  write  to  you,  to  say  on 
paper  all  that  I  have  been  used  to  say  by  word  of 
mouth  !  Yet  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  thankful.  Even 
to  be  able  to  write  to  you  is  something.  First  of  all, 
let  me  tell  you  how  much  I  love  you  ;  how  dear  you 
are  to  me  !  It  seems  that  I  have  bound  up  all  my 
life  in  you.  What  a  thing  to  be  in  love  !  It  also 
seems  that  I  have  always  known  you,  or  that  I  just 
know  you.  One  thing  is  certain  :  until  now  I  never 
knew  myself.  I  look  in  the  glass  very  often.  It  seems 
that  my  great  happiness  must  show  on  my  face  so 
plain  that  all  the  world  must  read  it.  Yet  that  would 
not  do — would  it?  I  have  a  real  satisfaction  in  know- 
ing that  our  love  is  hidden  from  everybody.  Of 
course  I  would  not  always  wish  it  so  ;  but  at  present 
I  feel  a  longing  to  commune  with  none  but  yourself. 
I  should  be  jealous  if  any  one  in  the  world  even 
imagined  our  happiness.  Your  telegram  from  Paris 
was  so  welcome,  I  read  it  fifty  times  ;  then  I  hid  it  in 
my  bosom.  The  words  burned  into  my  heart.  Is  it 
true  ?  Do  you  really  love  me  so  much  ?  How  I  wish 
you  were  here  !  I  would  make  you  repeat  it  a  thou- 
sand times,  all  in  one  breath,  and  in  the  way  I  love 
so  well.  Ah,  dear,  if  I  could  but  see  you  for  a  little 
moment,  I  would  be  so  happy  ! 


430  Stage-Struck, 

"I  know  I  am  not  to  annoy  you  by  fretting;  only 
it  ought  to  please  you  to  think  that  I  am  very  un- 
happy when  you  are  not  near  me.  Mamma  returns 
to-morrow.  Only  think  how  glad  I  shall  be  to  see 
her.  I — I  wonder  if  she  will  find  me  changed.  Ours 
is  a  great  secret  to  hide  from  a  mother.  I  have  been 
to  my  lesson  to-day  ;  my  voice  was  reedy  and  un- 
steady. I  tried  to  find  pleasure  in  my  singing,  but 
it  was  very  hard.  However,  do  not  think,  sir,  that  I 
am  going  to  be  in  this  way  all  my  life.  I  expect  to 
take  wild  delight  in  many  things,  and,  above  all,  in 
my  singing.  Once  the  world  acknowledges  that  I 
can  sing,  I  will  cheerfully  give  up  all  thought  of  the 
operatic  stage ;  but  I  must  first  be  known  as  a  great 
artist.  I  await  a  letter  from  you — oh,  so  eagerly  ! 
Don't  forget  to  write  to  Poste  Resta7ite.  I  shall  go 
alone  to  my  lessons,  even  when  mamma  is  here,  and 
call  there  on  my  way.  I  wonder  what  you  will  say 
to  me.  Something  very  nice,  of  course.  By  the  way, 
darling,  did  it  ever  strike  you  that  our  conversation 
was  not  very  original  whilst  we  were  together? 
Every  hour,  every  day.  the  same  thing  to  one  and 
the  other,  Dis-moi  que  tu  m'adore.  Are  you  not 
ashamed  ?  At  least  I  spoke  quite  under  my  breath. 
I  only  say  this  now  because — because  I  am  going  to 
repeat  that — I  love  you  so  much.  There !  it  is  out, 
and  I  will  not  tell  you  it  again  in  this  letter.  There 
were  a  thousand  things  which  I  wanted  to  say  while 
you  were  here,  but  the  time  passed,  always  talking 
about  ourselves  and  our  great  happiness.  Oh,  how 
selfish  I  am  not  to  ask  a  word  about  you,  your  trip, 
or  your  uncle  !    I  do  hope  that  your  telegram  was  too 


St  age-Struck.  431 

urgent,  and  that  he  is  quite  out  of  danger.  Are  you 
well  yourself  ?  Are  you  happy  ?  No,  don't  say  that 
you  are  happy  without  me.  I  don't  want  you  to  be 
really  unhappy,  or  to  suffer ;  but  I  do  want  you  to 
miss  me  very  much.  You  must  write  long  letters — 
tell  me  all  about  yourself,  and  mind  you  put  in  as 
often  as  possible  how — how  much  you  think  of  me. 
I  can  scarcely  realize  that  the  last  few  weeks  have 
not  been  a  long  dream.  No,  I  am  indeed  a  married 
woman.  Here  is  the  ring  on  my  finger,  and  here  am 
I  writing  to  my  darling  husband.  It  is  hard  to  tear 
myself  away  from  the  paper, — this  wretched  sheet  of 
which  I  am  already  jealous.  It  may  see  you  and  I 
not.  Ah  me  !  could  I  but  see  you,  but  hear  your 
voice  to-night — this  very  moment — otherwise  than  in 
my  dreams!  Yet  I  have  a  very  vivid  recollection  of  a 
pair  of  dark  eyes,  a  strong  sweet  voice,  a  tall  form, 
an  indescribable  face — by  the  way,  a  face  from  which 
one  reads  nothing.  It  is  quite  impenetrable  ;  and 
now  that  I  think  of  it,  I  am  not  sure  that  you  are 
very  good-looking.  I  never  cared  to  marry  a  hand- 
some man,  but — 

"  Dear  me  !  some  one  is  knocking.  I  can't  write 
any  more.  This  will  catch  the  post  in  ten  minutes. 
We  four  send  love — the  monkey,  the  mongrel,  tabby, 
and  your  loving,  devoted  wife, 

"Annabel." 

"November  8th. 
"  Dearest  Noel: 

"  I  have  just  read  your  first  letter.  How  sweet ! 
how  like  yourself  !     But  what  a  short  note.     No;  I 


432  Stage-Struck, 

want  nothing  only  you  and  your  love.  Mamma  is  here, 
and  she  has  discovered — nothing.  One  thing,  the 
janitor  is  ill,  and  the  monkey  starring  it  in  the  pro- 
vinces. Giuseppine  had  to  go  to  the  country,  and 
behold  !  there  is  no  one  to  tell  her  in  case  she  should 
ask  questions.  My  father  has  had  great  luck.  He 
has  met  a  man  who  is  interested  in  him,  and  who  has 
advanced  a  sum  of  money  for  some  patents  to  refine 
something.  Oh  !  I  am  stupid,  but  I  cannot  tell 
what  it  is,  only  that  we  are  very  happy  over  the 
affair.  Happy  !  We — that  is  to  say,  I  am  relatively 
so.  How  can  I  be  happy  without  you  ?  Mamma  is 
changed.  I  find  her  silent,  preoccupied,  and  we  have 
little  to  say  to  each  other.  Besides,  she  keeps  on 
with  her  newspaper-writing.  I  do  long  to  tell  her 
that  I  am  married  !  I  wish  I  might.  You  know  you 
told  me  to  ask  you  anything  I  wished  for  very  much. 
I  wish  for  that.  I  do  so  want  to  tell  her  !  Do  not  be 
offended  with  me.  You  will  think  it  over;  and  if  you 
can,  do  let  me.  Dear  mamma  I  she  has  always  been  so 
devoted  to  me,  and  I  know  she  always  liked  you,  too. 
Just  fancy  !  she  went  all  over  London  to  find  the 
Edmonds'.  They  seemed  to  have  disappeared  as  com- 
pletely as  if  the  earth  had  opened  and  swallowed  them 
up.  She  even  spoke  of  you.  How  I  trembled  when 
she  said  that  no  one  had  heard  from  you  !  The  man 
who  helped  papa  is  named  Normand.  Again  I 
thought  of  you.  Mamma  did  not  meet  him;  but  he 
certainly  must  be  a  very  kind  person.  I  hope  the 
affair  will  turn  out  well,  for  all  our  sakes.  No;  you 
have  no  cause  to  be  jealous.  I  have  not  seen  any  one  to 
make  love  to  me  as  yet.  Still,  I  must  say  that  a  strange 


Stage-Struck.  433 

ugly  man  is  always  in  my  path.  At  the  theatre  he 
stares;  in  the  streets  he  does  not  follow  exactly,  but  he 
keeps  me  in  sight.  Of  course  he  admires  me,  which 
ought  to  flatter  you  immensely;  but  I  cannot  say  that 
I  admire  him.  He  is  about  forty,  ugly,  and  wears 
a  horseshoe  mustache  dyed  black.  A  horseshoe 
mustache  would  condemn  any  man  in  my  eyes  from 
the  outset.  I  am  often  at  the  boarding-house,  and  see 
a  great  deal  of  Gen,  who  is  a  lovely  girl.  There  is 
much  excitement  in  the  students*  colony  over  the  ill- 
ness of  Miss  Letty  Morris.  The  circumstances  are 
mysterious,  so  I  do  not  dare  as  yet  to  say  what  one  may 
or  may  not  think.  Poor  young  creature  !  Ill,  away 
from  home,  alone,  and  unhappy.  The  care  she  receives 
from  every  one  in  the  boarding-house  is  something 
quite  touching.  Gen  and  Lara  watch  by  her  day  and 
night,  and  there  is  but  one  topic  of  conversation — 
Letty. 

"  I  am  sure  that  you  would  like  now  to  have  me  tell 
you  how  much  I  love  you.  I  think  that  I  am  like  the 
children  who  discriminate  their  affections  by  pecks 
and  bushels  of  love  and  an  armful  of  kisses.  There  ! 
am  I  not  a  loving  wife  ?  But  I  send  you  all — pecks, 
bushels,  armfuls  !  Still  that  is  not  enough.  I  want 
to  see  you,  to  talk  to  you,  to  look  at  you,  to  feel  that 
you  are  near  me.  I  am  not  at  all  happy  without  my 
Brak;  also,  I  do  not  quite  make  out  your  plans.  Your 
uncle  is  better,  but  you  must  still  stay  in  England. 
You  goto  Brighton  because  you  must  goto  Brighton; 
and  not  a  word  of  when  I  am  to  see  you.  Oh,  if  I 
had  only  been  an  Englishwoman  !  The  calm,  the 
tranquillity  of  English  people  !     I  don't  believe  you 


434  Stage-Struck. 

love  me  at  all.  There  you  are  flirting  at  Brighton, 
and  I  am  fretting  in  Milan.  I  ought  not  to  fret.  I  am 
jealous.  This  is  the  season  at  Brighton,  and  English- 
women are  so  insinuating  with  their  smooth  hair, 
smooth  brows,  and  smooth  manners.  They  produce 
more  mischief  in  the  improvised  drooping  of  one  eye- 
lid than  an  American  continent  of  pretty  but  untu- 
tored women  could  with  a  week's  thorough  artillery 
pr::ctice.  No;  I  am  decidedly  jealous,  and  I  cannot 
bear  to  think  of  this  Brighton  scheme.  I  shall  go 
away  and  sing,  and  allow  the  tenor  to  make  love  to 
me.  I  will  flirt  with  that  handsome  Scotch  officer. 
Captain  Skancy,  whom  I  met  at  the  ball;  and  in  the 
mean  time  I  take  back  my  premature  bushels  of  love 
and  armful  of  kisses. 

"  Your  indignant 

"  Annabel. 

"  P.S. — Do  you  remember  just  how  I  look  ?  I 
haven't  changed  except  that  I  am  paler.  I  washed  all 
the  color  out  last  night  by  crying,  and  salt  water  does 
not  improve  any  one's  skin.  I  want  to  see  you,  to 
hear  you  tell  me  how  much — 

"  No,  I  won't  finish.  You  are  a  cold,  calm,  cruel 
Englishman.  You  don't  love  me.  At  least  write;  and 
— and  don't  flirt  at  Brighton. 

"  A.  A.  B." 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

"  To  Noel  Brakenston^  Esq.,  Gar  rick  Club,  London, 

"Dearest:  A  refusal  is  always  a  refusal,  put  in 
no  matter  what  terms.  I  shall  not  ask  you  again  if  I 
may  tell  mamma  about  our  marriage.  It  seems 
that  no  one  suffers  but  myself.  Naturally,  mamma, 
knowing  nothing,  cannot  be  affected  in  any  way.  You 
repeat  my  words,  that  *  she  seems  preoccupied  and 
changed,'  as  a  reason  why  I  should  not  startle  or 
worry  her  by  such  a  confidence.  Perhaps  you  are 
right.  To  your  often  expressed  wishes,  and  in 
obedience  to  my  promise,  I  shall  not  broach  the  sub- 
ject again.  You  shall  be  the  first  to  say  when  the 
world  is  to  be  taken  into  our  confidence.  My  faith 
in  you  is  only  equalled  by  my  love.  Dearest,  that  is 
saying  a  great  deal.  You  have  been  kind  enough  to 
express  interest  in  the  young  American  who  is  ill, 
and  all  that  interests  me — even  the  smallest  detail  of 
my  every-day  life.  As  you  have  asked  me,  I  will  tell 
you.     The  story  is  sad  enough. 

"  Poor  Letty  !  She  died  two  days  ago,  and  I  have 
just  come  back  from  her  funeral.  It  was  the  most 
touching  thing  I  ever  witnessed.  While  she  was 
dying,  the  Italian  count,  who  was  the  ultimate  cause 
of  her  death,  came  again  to  the  boarding-house — cried 
on  the  staircase,  and  begged  to  see  his  'wronged, 
loved    Letty'!      The    boys    threatened   to    tar    and 


43^  Stage-StrucL 

feather  him  if  he  did  not  leave  not  only  the  house 
but  Milan.  They  gave  him  until  the  next  morning 
to  get  out  of  town,  or  he  would  be  handed  over  to 
the  police.  To  think  that  the  law  cannot  reach  such 
wretches  !  My  heart  ached  when  I  saw  her.  She 
was  never  conscious  towards  the  last,  and  died  seem- 
ingly in  the  greatest  agony,  although  she  had  one 
gleam  of  reason,  and  tried  to  talk.  She  had  taken  so 
much  chloroform  that  death  must  have  resulted 
sooner  or  later.  The  news  that  all  was  over  caused 
the  greatest  excitement.  The  house  was  draped  in 
black  ;  the  boys  all  put  weeds  on  their  hats  and  crape 
on  their  arms.  I  saw  her  on  her  bier.  She  was  as  a 
sleeping  goddess.  Her  skin  was  like  white  wax  ;  her 
black  lashes  lay  on  her  cheek  ;  her  brows  were 
smoothed  with  that  supreme  peacefulness  which 
death  gives  to  all.  Her  beautiful  mouth  looked 
strangely  red,  and  wore  an  expression,  almost  a 
smile.  Her  hair,  long  and  blue-black,  reached  quite 
to  her  knees  ;  it  made  both  coronal  and  cushion  to 
her  head — her  poor,  tired  head,  which  has  at  last 
found  eternal  rest!  The  girls  "had  placed  flowers  in 
her  hands  and  on  her  bosom,  and  her  pillow  was  one 
mass  of  rare  white  blossoms.  Just  think  of  it !  Not 
one  in  the  house  but  sent  some  floral  token.  Many, 
I  am  sure,  went  without  bread  that  day;  but  no  one 
missed  sending  his  last  souvenir  to  the  poor  girl,  a 
compatriot — abandoned,  yet  not  wholly  friendless,  in 
a  foreign  land.  The  ceremony  was  so  impressive,  I 
cannot  write  about  it  without  crying.  Every  one  was 
in  tears — men,  women,  and  children  ;  and  the  scene  in 
the  house  was  absolutely  heart-rending.     It  has  been 


Stage-Struck.  437 

a  lovely  day,  soft  and  mild.  Even  the  sun  was  not 
glaring,  and  a  gentle  air  just  stirred  the  branches  of 
the  trees.  The  fine  weather  rendered  it  easier  for  all 
to  accompany  her  to  the  cemetery.  The  funeral  pro- 
cession was  very  imposing  and  beautiful ;  the  pall- 
bearers were  numerous  ;  and  all  of  the  boys  and  men 
walked  uncovered  to  the  grave.  It  was  quite  touch- 
ing, and  was  not  less  impressive.  The  boys  tried  to 
sing  a  hymn,  but  all  of  their  voices  were  strangled  by 
emotion.  Some  children  threw  masses  of  flowers  on 
the  coffin,  and  it  was  lowered  into  the  grave  under  a 
fragrant  cloud  of  virginal  blossoms.  Poor,  poor 
Letty  !  And  so  ends  the  history  of  one  more  unfortu- 
nate— of  one  more  beautiful  American  who  has  found, 
not  honor  and  glory,  but  dishonor  and  death  in  this 
famous  land  of  song.  Some  seem  fated,  destined  to 
misfortune.  It  is  not  enough  to  be  beautiful,  gifted, 
loving,  and  amiable.  When  I  think  of  Letty,  I  say  to 
myself,  *  What  is  ambition,  when  it  leads  to  such  an 
end  as  this  ? '  Oh,  Brak,  only  think  if  it  had  happened 
to  me  !  I  am  sure  I  should  die,  like  her,  were  you  to 
desert  me  ;  but  I  have  no  fear  of  that,  only  the  days 
do  pass  so  slowly  while  you  are  away.  I  wish  you 
would  come.  Do  you  think  that  you  will  be  able  to, 
very  soon  ?     I  am  so  lonely,  and  so  sad.     Do  come  to 

"Your  own 

"  Annabel." 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

"  To  Noel  Brakenston,  Esq,^  Garrick  Club,  London. 

"  Dearest  :  Your  letters  are  the  joy  of  my  life. 
I  little  thought  the  time  would  ever  come  when  I 
should  be  so  wrapped  up  in  any  man.  My  whole 
happiness  hangs  upon  getting  a  few  lines  from  you. 
Dear,  I  wish  you  would  write  oftener ;  I  would,  only 
you  tell  me  never  to  do  so  except  in  reply  to  one  of 
yours.  No,  I  cannot  obey  you  any  longer  ;  now  I  am 
going  to  write  as  often  as  I  can,  whether  I  hear  from 
you  or  not.  There,  my  dear  husband  ;  I  hope  you 
will  begin  to  realize  that  you  have  married  a  woman 
with  a  will  of  her  own.  I  am  not  going  to  be  de- 
prived of  the  pleasure  of  writing  to  you  because  you 
^are  a  poor  correspondent,'  and  Mazy'  about  writing 
— your  very  words,  sir ;  in  fact,  the  old  story.  I  am 
afraid  you  love  me  less.  You  are  too  sure  of  me  ;  I 
was  too  lightly  won.  But  you  remember,  Juliet 
promised  to  prove  more  true  than  one  who  had  more 
cunning  to  disguise  her  sentiments. 

"So  you  would  scold  me  for  having  told  you  about 
poor  Letty.  I  did  not  do  it  to  indulge  in  *  morbid 
sentiment.*  Why  did  you  ask  me  to  tell,  if  you  didn't 
want  to  hear  ?  Now  I  think  of  it,  it  was  a  great  deal 
to  write  you  about  one  in  whom  you  could  have  no 
possible  interest.  Still  I  say,  poor  thing  ;  poor  fated 
creature  !     Perhaps  it  is  true,  *  whom  the  gods  love 


Stage-Struck.  439 

die  young.'  I  must  tell  you  of  no  one  in  the  future 
but  myself  ;  speak  of  nothing  but  our  love.  How 
much  I  miss  you  !  How  lengthy  the  days  ;  how 
dreary  the  nights  !  I  long  to  walk  straight  into  your 
club  this  very  minute,  and  put  my  arms  around  your 
neck  before  all  the  world.  What  would  the  men  say  ? 
I  shouldn't  care  a  bit ;  in  fact,  I'd  rather  enjoy  it.  I 
have  half  a  notion  of  coming.  What  are  clubs,  any 
way,  but  traps  for  men,  and  enemies  to  women  ? 

*'What  do  you  think?  I  am  going  to  sing  at 
Florence.  Now  don't  say  I  can't  go,  for  I  am  going ; 
it  is  already  settled.  The  money  isn't  much  ;  but  I 
shall  be  quite  a  star  to  sing  at  the  Pergola,  and  only 
my  second  theatre,  too.  Now  I  must  run  off  to  re- 
hearse. Good-by,  darling  ;  a  thousand  thousand 
kisses.  "  Your  own 

"  Annabel. 

"P.S. — Do  write  oftener.  My  voice  is  less  reedy, 
and  I  have  a  lovely  role.  I  wish  you  were  the  tenor. 
Wouldn't  I  hug  and  kiss  you  ! — Vtde  *  Lost  Heir.'  " 


CHAPTER  L. 

Annabel  was  much  admired,  much  sought  after. 
The  attentions  of  Count  Arani  had  been  replaced  by 
those  of  a  more  formidable  and  persistent  suitor — the 
man  with  the  horseshoe  mustache.  She  had  remarked 
him,  and  had  already  taken  a  dislike  to  him.  How 
distasteful  the  sight  of  an  admirer  was!  Besides, 
she  was  a  married  woman,  and  loved  the  ground  her 
husband  walked  on.  This  double  life  was  terrible; 
yet  her  position  was  such  that  she  must  treat  all  the 
world  alike — wear  a  smile  when  she  felt  like  crying, 
and  receive  attention  here  and  there  and  everywhere. 
A  pretty  woman  going  to  be  an  opera-singer  must 
have  more  than  talent;  she  must  have  tact  and  diplo- 
macy. If  unmarried,  she  must  show  no  preferences. 
She  is  supposed  to  be  a  demoiselle  h  marier  ou  a  se  lais- 
ser  f aire  la  cour ;  at  least,  she  is  an  artist,  and  must 
have  a  smile  for  all  the  world.  Brakenston  had  a 
rival,  a  distinct  rival,  in  a  man  with  a  horseshoe 
mustache. 

One  day  Mrs.  Almont  received  a  letter  thus  con- 
ceived: (Annabel  often  went  out  with  Genevieve,  and 
several  times  they  had  met  this  persistent  admirer. 
The  letter  was  from  him,  addressed  to  her  mamma.) 

"  Madame: 

'*  I  wish  to  propose  myself  for  the  hand  of  tne 
younger  of  the  two  noble  young  ladies  whom,  if  I  do 


Stage-Struck.  441 

not  me  deceive,  are  your  daughters.  I  have  fallen  in 
love  with  her,  and  depose  at  her  feet  my  heart  in  hon- 
orable marriage.  For  not  to  follow  her  when  she 
promenades,  I  have  arrested  an  apartment  in  your 
face,  from  whom  it  will  be  permitted  me  her  to  watch 
according  to  my  convenience.  My  means  permit  me 
to  offer  myself;  they  mount  to  a  hundred  thousand 
francs  of  rents,  of  which  the  half  I  will  depose  under 
the  table  for  her.  My  family  is  of  the  most  noble, 
and  loses  itself  in  the  night  of  times.  If  the  sky  bless 
our  union,  I  consent  of  advance  that  the  children  may 
be  baptized  in  the  religion  of  mademoiselle,  which, 
although  I  have  not  the  honor  to  know  it,  I  am  lifted  to 
believe  is  as  beautiful  as  that  of  herself.  The  Ameri- 
can consul,  who  is  of  my  friends,  will  carry  himself 
guarantee,  This  afternoon  at  four  hours  I  will  to  be 
seen  on  my  balcony;  at  five  hours  I  will  have  the 
honor  to  present  myself  at  you,  and  formally  to  de- 
mand the  hand  of  your  maiden.  In  attending,  agree 
in  the  assurances  of  my  most  high  consideration 
"Francesco  Francatestone, 

"  of  the  Princes  of  Francatestone." 

Mrs.  Almont  was  furious.  "The  idea!"  said  she; 
"an  American  permitting  her  daughter  to  marry  a 
total  stranger!"  She  fairly  raged;  and  one  may  im- 
agine what  her  daughter's  sentiments  and  feelings 
were. 

At  four,  however,  they  could  not  help  peeping, 
when  they  saw  at  the  window  of  the  house  opposite 
the  horseshoe  stranger.  Annabel  was  so  provoked 
that  she  did  not  venture  out  that  day.     The  following^ 


442  Stage-Struck, 

she  went  to  her  lesson,  and  stayed  purposely  until 
dark,  when  they  met  him  in  the  entrance,  just  coming 
from  their  door. 

At  five  o'clock,  Signor  Francatestone  called;  he  was 
shown  into  the  sitting-room.  He  bowed  to  Mrs.  Al- 
mont,  and  asked  her  in  Italian  if  she  spoke  that  lan- 
guage. 

"Annabel,"  said  her  mother,  "what  is  he  saying?" 
She  asked  this,  drawing  herself  up,  and  looking  at 
him  as  though  he  were  Don  Juan  in  person. 

"  He  asks  if  you  speak  Italian." 

"Tell  him  I  can't." 

Annabel  began.     "  My  mother,  signor — " 

"Signorina,  I  am  not  addressing  myself  to  you,  bui 
to  madame  your  mother." 

"Annabel,  I  insist  on  your  telling  me  what  he 
says." 

"  Why,  certainly,  mamma.  He  says  that  he  was  not 
addressing  me." 

"  What  are  you  saying  to  your  mother,  mademoi- 
selle ?" 

"  I  was  trying  to  translate  to  her  what  you  said." 

"Yes;  but  why  does  she  speak  to  you  in  that  lan- 
guage ?" 

"Probably  because  it  is  the  only  one  she  knows." 

"  What!     She  speaks  no  Italian,  no  French  ?" 

"  But  surely  you  understand  English,  signor  ?  Your 
letter—" 

"  I  combined  it,  and  many  friends  at  my  club  helped 
to  translate  it." 

"  Annabel,"  interposed  Mrs.  Almont,  "  T  insist  on 
your  telling  me  this  tpinute  what  that  vile  man  is  say- 


Stage-Struck,  443 

ing.  Say  to  him  I  want  to  have  nothing  to  do  with 
him,  and  that  we  do  not  buy  and  sell  our  daughters  in 
America;  besides,  we  don't  receive  men  we  don't  know, 
and  whom  we  have  never  been  presented  to.  Tell  him 
to  go.  I  consider  his  proposal  indecent;  tell  him 
that." 

"  Oh,  mamma!  I  can't  say  that;  it  wouldn't  be — " 

"  Mademoiselle,"  broke  in  the  Italian,  "  I  entreat 
you  to  tell  me  what  madame  your  mother  says." 

"  Signor,  my  mother  wishes  me  to  say  that  she  has 
read  the  letter  you  did  her  the  honor  to  write,  and 
that  she  regrets  infinitely  that  she  must  decline  the 
proposal  contained  in  it." 

Signor  Francatestone  stared  helplessly  at  both 
mother  and  daughter,  as  if  he  could  hardly  believe  the 
evidence  of  his  own  senses. 

"  Did  you  read  the  letter,  mademoiselle  ?  Ah!" 
sighing  profoundly,  "  why  did  I  not  address  you  at 
first  ?" 

"  That  would  have  been  more  natural,  considering 
that  I  am  the  person  most  concerned;  but  the  answer 
would  have  been  the  same." 

"  Annabel!"  screamed  her  mother,**  will  you  tell  me 
why,  in  the  name  of  goodness,  you  are  still  keeping  up 
a  conversation  with  that  man  ?  What  is  he  saying  ? 
Why  doesn't  he  go  ?" 

Signor  Francatestone  entirely  ignored  this  out- 
burst. 

"Mademoiselle,  I  am  noble,  I  am  rich,"  he  said. 
"  and  I  am  distingui.  Thousands  of  my  countrywo- 
men would  imagine  no  greater  honor  than  an  alli- 
ance with  the  noble  house  of  Francatestone.     I  have 


444  Stage-Struck, 

offered  to  marry  you,  to  make  a  lady  of  you;  can  it  be 
possible  that  you  refuse  ?    The  American  consul — " 

Mrs.  Almont  caught  the  last  words.  She  here  in- 
terrupted :  "  What  is  that  about  the  American  consul  ? 
I  don't  believe  he  knows  him.     Tell  him  that." 

"Mamma,  I  can't  tell  him  that  he  doesn't  know  a 
man  when  very  likely  he  does  know  him;  and  how  do 
you  know  that  he  doesn't  know  him  ?" 

Mr.  Francatestone  interrupted:  "Signorina,  will  you 
kindly  translate  what  madame  is  saying  to  me  ?  Have 
you  told  her  all  that  T  have  said  ?  What  objection 
can  she  have  to  me  ?     I  am  a  gentleman — Mr. — " 

Her  mother  caught  the  last  word,  and  laughed  sar- 
castically. "Gentleman!  I  understand  that  word,  at 
least.  Tell  him  that  a  gentleman  does  not  remain 
when  his  company  is  not  wanted.     Tell  him  that." 

Annabel  said  nothing.  It  dimly  dawned  on  the  no- 
ble scion  of  the  house  of  Francatestone  that  his  alli- 
ance was  not  appreciated.  He  determined  to  make 
one  last  effort — this  time  to  Annabel  herself. 

"  Signorina,"  he  said,  "  I  think  I  have  already  placed 
before  your  mother  the  advantages  of  a  marriage 
with  me.  I  now  appeal  to  your  heart.  I  offer  you 
the  burning  love  and  wild  devotion  of  the  hot- 
blooded  Italian.  I  am  your  slave;  do  what  you  will 
with  me." 

"  Really,  signor,  I  am  most  highly  honored,  but  I 
must  refuse  your  offer." 

"  Refuse  my  offer  !  Then  I  refuse  to  accept  your 
refusal.  You  shall  hear  from  me  again."  He  glared 
at  them,  bowed  profoundly,  and  without  another  word 
precipitately  left  the  room. 


Stage-Struck.  445 

"Well,  Annaoel,  has  he  really  gone  ?  I  feel  as  if  I 
had  been  doing  a  hard  day's  work."  Her  mother 
sank  back  exhausted  on  a  sofa. 

They  had  not  heard  the  last  of  him.  He  sent  let- 
ters, flowers,  and  bonbons  daily.  He  stared  at  Anna- 
bel in  the  theatre  and  in  the  street.  Although  she 
regularly  returned  his  presents,  still  with  equal  regu- 
larity the  next  morning  his  letter  would  come,  at  noon 
the  flowers,  at  night  the  bonbons.  She  grew  ashamed 
to  send  back  the  things,  and  already  the  concierge 
began  to  look  interested  in  this  love-affair.  The  man's 
assiduity  and  persistence  passed  belief.  He  was  a 
clever  writer.  His  previous  letters  had  been  keen, 
despairing,  satirical,  friendly,  loving — everything. 
He  wrote  one  final  epistle,  refusing  to  give  her  up. 
It  was  the  climax. 

Even  Mrs.  Almont  gave  in.  "  I  never  before  knew 
such  persistence  !  Annabel,  you  will  have  to  marry 
him  to  get  rid  of  him,"  she  said. 

Annabel  only  smiled  when  her  mother  said  this; 
but  she  was  glad  when  her  departure  to  Florence  cut 
short  these  ardent  attentions. 

Brakenston  wrote  very  seldom.  His  letters  were 
brief,  but  couched  in  such  loving  language  that  she 
did  not  like  to  scold  him. 

Life  in  Milan  was  the  same.  Some  of  the  students 
had  obtained  brief  engagements  at  some  minor  thea- 
tres in  Italy,  and  were  living  on  in  the  old  way,  just 
keeping  soul  and  body  together,  yet  never  neglecting 
their  duties.  When  one  master  did  not  seem  to  get 
them  ahead  fast  enough,  off  they  went  to  another. 

Faces  looked  pale,  and  coats   seedy.     There  were 


44^  Stage-Struck, 

no  more  parties  in  the  Galleria,  and  Fay  had  to  give 
up  the  boarding-house.  The  boys  talked  gloomily  to- 
gether. Their  numbers  had  diminished,  for  some  of 
them  had  at  last  borrowed  enough  money  to  get  back 
to  America. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

"  To  Miss  Annabel  Almont,  Post  Restante^  Milan: 

"  What  can  I  say  to  you,  darling,  to  prove  that 
you  are  never  out  of  my  memory,  and  that  I  long 
more  and  more  to  see  you  ?  It  is  true  that  we  have 
been  separated  a  very  long  time.  But  I  need  not  seek 
for  words  to  tell  you  how  much  I  care  for  you;  you 
know  it  as  well  as  I  do.  I  really  had  no  idea  that  I 
could  ever  be  so  much  in  love.  I  do  not  think  a  mo- 
ment passes  in  the  day  without  my  wishing  that  you 
were  with  me.  My  friends  all  chaff  me  and  say  that  I 
am  distrait.  Perhaps  they  are  right.  For  when  I  am 
talking  to  them,  my  thoughts  stray  away  to  you.  I  re- 
call every  circumstance  that  happened  while  we  were 
together.  I  hear  your  voice,  I  see  your  dear  face;  your 
eyes  look  fondly  on  me;  and  I  almost  fancy  for  a  mo- 
ment that  your  hand  is  in  mine.  Oh,  Annabel,  dearest! 
I  know  that  you  love  me;  but  care  for  me  as  you  will, 
believe  me,  you  never  can  love  so  deeply  and  devoted- 
ly as  I  do  you.  I  am  jealous  of  everybody  and  every- 
thing. I  should  have  been  even  of  your  music,  had 
you  turned  to  it  after  me;  but  I  know  how  fond  you 
were  of  it;  and  had  you  not  been  fonder  of  me, 
I  should  not  have  had  a  chance  against  it  in  your 
affections.  It  is  useless  telling  me  not  to  flirt;  every 
woman  here  bores  me.  I  compare  them  to  you,  and 
they  do  not  seem  as  pretty  or  as  nice  by  a  long  way. 


44^  Stage-Struck, 

The  truth  is,  you  have  spoiled  me  for  every  other 
woman.  No;  I  will  not  give  up  my  smoking.  It 
soothes  my  nerves;  and  were  it  not  for  it,  I  should  be 
doing  something  desperate  when  I  think  by  how  many 
miles  we  are  parted.  And  so  you  did  not  get  on  very 
well  at  Florence.  I  am  delighted  to  hear  this.  I  do 
not  want  managers  to  engage  you.  I  object  entirely 
to  your  singing  on  the  stage.  I  am  sorry  for  you,  if 
you  were  disappointed;  but,  dear,  I  cannot  help  feel- 
ing that  if  you  had  thousands  applauding  you  as  a 
prima  donna,  I  should  not  be  all  in  all  to  you.  You 
say  that  my  existence  is  aimless,  and  that  you  are 
ambitious  for  me;  when  once  we  are  together  I  will 
try  to  make  you  proud  of  me.  You  speak  of  my 
talents.  Well,  all  summed  up,  what  are  they  ?  I  write 
poetry,  badly;  I  paint,  poorly;  I  play  the  piano,  fairly; 
I  speak  many  languages,  none  to  perfection.  I  am 
not  really  good-looking,  my  character  is  also  incom- 
plete, and  myself  all  that  is  most  useless  in  man. 
These  half-qualities  I  feel  are  not  enough  to  amount 
to  anything;  besides,  I  have  not  the  American  push 
in  me.  I  come  of  a  slow-blooded  race.  Still,  I  prom- 
ise you  that  one  of  these  days  I  will  do  all  that  I  can  to 
make  myself  a  name  in  the  world.  Just  now  I  have 
neither  time  nor  inclination  for  schemes  of  ambition. 
God  bless  you,  darling  !  Could  I  but  be  with  you 
always!  Women  like  you  are  rare,  very  rare.  I  only 
love  you  the  more  for  your  strength  of  will,  and  un- 
swerving ambition.  It  is  but  natural  that  you  should 
wish  your  husband  to  make  a  name  in  the  world. 

"What  a  long  letter  !     You  cannot  complain  that  I 
have  not  devoted  myself  to  you  to-day.     It  is  cold. 


Stage-Struck.  449 

very  cold.  I  think  we  shall  have  snow.  London  in 
March  is  far  from  agreeable,  yet  it  is  preferable 
to  a  provincial  seaside  resort.  I  am  tied  to  the  sick- 
bed of  a  fretful  invalid.  I  am  in  the  country,  and  sel- 
dom able  to  get  up  to  London.  Great  Heaven  !  only 
to  be  free — free  to  follow  my  heart,  which  says,  *  Go 
to  Annabel;  go  at  once  !' 

"  Now,  dear,  I  understand  your  reproaches,  your 
anxious  moments,  your  doubts,  your  fears;  I  under- 
stand all,  because  I  am  sure  you  love  me  as  I  love 
you.  By  the  way,  do  you  never  tire  of  this  old  word  ? 
Yet  to  the  woman  I  adore  what  else  can  I  say  ?  Ah, 
dearest,  I  might  write  you  volumes,  and  I  should 
never  tire  repeating  the  phrase,  *  I  love  you.'  What 
is  this  history  of  a  cold  ?  Coughing  and  fretting,  and 
— oh  wonder  of  all  wonders! — tired  of  Milan  !  I  am  not 
surprised,  from  the  little  I  saw  of  the  centre  in  which 
the  American  student  lives.  I,  too,  got  an  insight  into 
the  Inferno.  You  ask  if  I  ever  see  Mrs.  Edmonds. 
Never.  I  can  appreciate  your  persistent  interest  in 
them — it  was  at  their  house  we  first  met;  but,  dear,  it 
is  not  so  pleasant  a  souvenir  for  me  in  one  sense  as  to 
you.  Remember,  there  also  I  had  to  leave  you,  then 
my  illness,  and  so  on.  It  is  strange,  the  caprice  of 
women  for  souvenirs  of  the  first  time  they  ever  met 
their  lovers,  even  if  at  first  they  hated  them.  Senti- 
mental !  Yes,  and  no.  Never  fear,  darling;  above 
all  it  is  extremely  womanly,  and  I  can  testify  that  you 
are  all  which  is  most  feminine.  Am  I  tired  of  this 
life  ?  Yes,  yes,  a  thousand  times  yes;  tired,  disgusted, 
despairing.  Many  things  that  I  cannot  explain  to  you 
at   present   render    my    existence    unbearable.     But, 


450  Stage-Struck. 

believe  me,  the  most  cruel  thing  of  all  is  our  separa- 
tion; is  being  in  love  with  one  woman  and  being 
obliged  to — live  away  from  her.  I  am  almost  tempted. 
Shall  I  leave  my  uncle  and  come  to  you  ?  What  can 
it  matter  about  consequences  ?  My  prospects  will  be 
ruined.  What  are  prospects  ?  But  what  is  life  with- 
out the  person  one  loves  ?  Tell  me  what  you  wish. 
Shall  I  come  to  you  ?  I  scarce  know  what  I  am  writ- 
ing. How  can  I  have  patience  any  longer?  But 
shall  I  ?  Yours  ever, 

"Brak." 


CHAPTER  LII. 

"  To  Noel  Brakenston^  Esq.^  Gar  rick  Club,  London  : 

"  What  a  dear  long  letter!  I  was  almost  glad  that 
I  am  away;  otherwise  I  never  could  have  seen  in  words 
how  much  you  think  of  me.  I  see  you  are  trying  to 
make  my  conquest  de  nouveau.  Flattery  is  useless,  sir; 
I  am  a  serious  woman.  I  must  allow,  however,  that 
could  you  make  me  fall  in  love  with  you  over  again,  I 
certainly  should  do  so,  because  of  your  letters — not  this 
one,  which  is  strange  and  almost  enigmatical.  I  do  not 
pretend  to  be  able  to  answer  you  in  any  way  other  than 
the  one  indicated  in  the  last  of  your  precious  epistle.  I 
flatter  myself,  dear,  that  I  love  you  quite  as  much  as  you 
do  me;  nay,  more,  and  that  that  is  possible.  Women 
always,  as  the  children  would  say,  '  love  harder  than 
men.'  You  have  paid  me  the  rare  compliment  of  call- 
ing me  a  woman  e  tutto  dire.  My  occasional  French  or 
Italian  expressions  remind  me  of  a  concert  once  in  Pa- 
ris. I  was  with  a  dear  old  friend  who  wished  to  tell  me 
an  amusing  bit  of  gossip, — harmless,  of  course.  He 
looked  calmly  at  me,  and  said,  *  Let  us  speak  in  French; 
then  no  one  can  understand  us.'  Perhaps  I  may  succeed 
in  giving  even  you  a  wrong  impression,  although, 
frankly,  I  think  I  am  a  little  more  proficient  now  in 
foreign  tongues.  I  am  flattered — yes  and  no — that 
you  find  me  beautiful  by  comparison.  My  self-love 
may  be  flattered  that  in  the  world  you  compare  other 


452  Stage-Struck. 

women  unfavorably  with  your  wife;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  my  heart  is  troubled  that  you  feel  yourself 
obliged  to  go  into  the  world  to  prove  the  truth  of  the 
comparison.  I  would  rather  take  it  for  granted  (mo- 
dest me),  or  I  would  rather  be  homely  than  have  you 
look  at  others.  There  is  safety  in  numbers.  When 
you  speak  of  any  one  in  particular,  I  shall  dwell  with 
a  green-eyed  monster.  What  have  I  not  suffered  in 
my  lifetime — from  everything  but  jealousy!  I  have 
had  occasional  touches  since  I  knew  you,  and  from  the 
little  I  have  felt  I  imagine  what  pain  it  must  be.  I 
am  determined  to  have  confidence  in  you.  Had  I  not, 
great  Heaven!  what  would  my  life  be?  No,  no;  I 
shall  not  listen  to  that  voice  of  arch  discord,  jealousy. 
I  must  believe  in  you  ever,  ever.  Of  course  I  am  not 
jealous.  I  have  no  idea  of  such  a  thing;  but  I  do  hope 
that  you  see  very  few  of  those  other  beautiful  women 
of  whom  you  spoke — few  and  rarely.  Of  course  I 
trust  in  you  completely,  otherwise  I  would  not  even 
mention  the  fact;  but — let  us  drop  the  subject.  You 
speak  of  being  at  an  invalid's  bedside.  Poor  darling! 
it  is  hard;  but  to  show  you  that  I  love  you  beyond 
words,  I  will  say,  be  patient.  Only  the  day  you  say 
to  me,  *  Annabel,  the  world  is  ours;  we  have  done  with 
secrets,' — I  dare  not  deny  it,  that  day  will  be  the  hap- 
piest of  my  life.  It  is  marvellous  how  not  the  slightest 
word  has  ever  reached  mamma  or  papa.  She  is  much 
preoccupied,  and  my  father  has  gone  to  a  little  place 
in  France  to  see  about  a  liquor-refinery.  Mamma 
talks  to  me  a  great  deal  about  my  art.  One  would 
say  that  she,  not  myself,  was  or  wanted  to  be  the  opera- 
singer.     I  do  not  interrupt.     Why  lead  her  thoughts 


St  age-Struck.  453 

into  another  channel  ?  I  am  really  disappointed  over 
my  venture  near  Florence,  which,  however,  perhaps 
means  that  I  shall  do  better  next  time.  I  begin  to 
realize  the  enormous  difficulty  under  which  foreigners 
labor.  When  singing  Italian  operas,  we  have  to  study 
much  which  comes  naturally  to  the  native  artist — the 
language.  In  Italy  one  must  say  the  words  well.  It 
is  hard  to  us  to  have  to  do  everything  in  a  given  space 
of  time.  Then,  too,  we  go  out  of  our  way  to  change 
our  natures,  instead  of  trying  to  do  the  best  we  can 
with  the  little'we  have. 

"  I  am  quite  clever  enough  to  understand  why  you 
are  depressed.  These  things  are  unusually  disagree- 
able. I  am  not  with  you,  you  are  not  with  me;  we  are 
not  together.  Together!  The  dear  word!  What  could 
matter  howling  wind  or  wave  ?  We  would  fold  our- 
selves in  our  love  and  laugh  at  the  elements.  We 
would  repeat  our  own  follies  a  thousand  times  over, 
and  the  world  might  wag  as  it  would. 

"A  dream,  dear.  I  sigh  as  I  write.  My  sigh  is 
longer  than  my  sheet.  I  am  at  the  end,  and  must  say 
good-by  for  the  present.  How  happy  I  am,  thinking 
of  you!  and  yet,  patience;  we  must  soon  meet.  How  ? 
when  ?  where  ?  Oh,  that  I  could  take  you  in  my  arms 
this  moment!  Instead,  I  embrace — ^partition  compRt 
piano  et  chant'  Fear  your  rival.  May  this  find  you  and 
yours  better!  God  bless  you  and  them  always!  With 
a  thousand  kisses. 

"  Your  own  loving 

"  Annabel." 


CHAPTER   LIII. 

"  To  Noel  BrakenstoUy  Esq,y  Garrick  Ciuby  London  : 

"Three  weeks  without  a  letter.  It  is  a  burning 
shame.  Three  weeks — three  centuries!  Are  you  ill  ? 
Can  anything  have  happened  ?  Are  you  forgetting 
me  ?  I  am  ill  to-day — ill,  wretched,  miserable.  If  I 
could  but  see  you!  Music;  bah!  As  we  say  in  America, 
*It  has  got  itself  disliked.*  It  does  not  suffice.  I  want 
you — you.  Cold,  indifferent,  forgetful!  Brak,  I  am 
sure  that  you  love  me  less.  Three  weeks  without  a 
line;  or  are  you  ill  ?  Great  Heaven !  can  it  be  possible  ? 
Take  care  of  yourself,  dear;  do,  for  my  sake.  London. 
Those  fogs.  Every  one  has  bronchitis.  Perhaps  you 
have  had  an  attack.  How  foolish  I  am  to  say  you  are 
ill!  I  dare  say  that  you  are  quite  well,  amusing  your- 
self with  your  friends,  and  that  you  have  quite  for- 
gotten me.  Whom  are  you  in  love  with  now  ?  I  sup- 
pose I  ought  not  to  complain.  We  have  been  married 
so  very,  very  long — five  whole  months.  Is  she  pretty  ? 
It  is  too  bad  of  you.  You  must  know  how  anxious 
I  am,  when  I  don't  hear  from  you.  I  consented  to 
everything  you  asked.  I  am  your  wife,  and  I  cannot 
even  tell  my  mother.  Brak,  dear  Brak,  do  write  to 
me.  I  imagine  all  sorts  of  things  when  I  don't  hear 
from  you.  Your  affectionate 

"  Annabel. 
"P.S.— Do  write;  do,  do,  DO." 


Stage-Struck,  455 

"March  4th. 

"  To  Noel  Brakenston^  Esq.^  Garrick  Club^  London  : 

"  Love,  what  can  this  silence  mean  ?  A  week  ago 
I  implored  you  to  send  me  one  line,  and  you  seem  to 
have  forgotten  my  very  existence.  You  told  me  when 
you  left  that  you  were  going  to  see  your  uncle,  and 
that  he  was  dying.  I  know  neither  his  name,  nor  even 
in  what  part  of  England  he  lives.  It  was  painful 
enough  to  part  with  you  so  soon  after  our  marriage, 
and  to  be  obliged  to  keep  it  a  secret  from  every 
human  being.  But  I  thought  that  you  would  soon  be 
back,  and  I  was  certain  that  I  should  hear  from  you 
very  often.  Are  you  ashamed  of  me?  How  is  your 
uncle  ?  Is  he  better  ?  It  was  a  mistake,  counting  as 
we  did  on  his  fortune.  You  are  clever,  and  I  don't 
care  for  money,  only  for  you.  I  would  rather  be  the 
wife  of  a  poor  man,  who  is  doing  something  in  the 
world,  than  wait  like  this  for  a  dead  man's  shoes.  But 
if  you  don't  like  to  work,  I  can  work  for  both.  All  I 
want  is,  dear,  to  be  with  you.  Thart  is  the  only  place 
for  your  wife.  A  manager  has  just  been  to  see  me. 
I  have  arranged  something  with  him,  but  I  won't  tell 
you  what  it  is  until  I  have  had  a  letter  from  you.  If 
you  only  knew  how  unhappy  I  am  at  your  silence, 
you  would  not  be  so  unkind. — Your  affectionate  wife, 

"Annabel. 

"  P.  S. — I  can't  be  unkind.  I  love  you  so  dearly. 
Perhaps  you  are  ill.  No;  that  cannot  be — bad  news 
travels  fast;  but  if  you  are  forgetting  me,  the  monkey 
will  accompany  me  to  America.     We  two  can  swear 


456  Stage-Struck, 

out  a  divorce  in  any  well-bred  Christian  town.  Per- 
haps you  have  been — gambling.  I  never  knew  you  to 
play  at  anything  but — love,  and  caring  for  me.  Of 
course  it  was  only  that;  otherwise,  how  could  you 
leave  me  so  long  without  a  line  or  a  scratch.  I  think 
you  treat  me  real  mean — there! 

**  P.P.S. — Do  write,  very  soon,  to  your  loving 

"Annabel." 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

Annabel  was  in  London,  engaged  to  sing  at  the 
opera.  This  was  what  she  had  promised  to  tell  Brak, 
if  he  wrote.  She  had  not  heard  a  word  from  him. 
She  could  not  understand  his  long  silence.  Her 
mother  was  fortunately  occupied  with  details  of  her 
toilet. 

She  went  to  his  club.  She  was  told  that  he  had  not 
been  there  for  some  time,  nor  was  his  address  known. 
It  was  a  terrible  blow  to  her;  but  what  could  be  done  ? 
She  thought  of  the  Edmonds';  but  she  might  as  well 
look  for  a  needle  in  a  haystack  as  try  to  find  them  in 
London  without  any  address. 

She  was  told  that  she  must  sing  at  once.  Artists 
engaged  at  a  theatre  like  Covent  Garden  are  sup- 
posed to  be  ready  at  a  moment's  notice.  Half  the 
company  were  ill.  She  was  set  down  for  a  subscrip- 
tion-night, and  was  informed  that  she  must  take  ad- 
vantage of  such  a  chance. 

It  was  the  same  old  story.  Meagre  rehearsals — 
almost  none  at  all;  and  even  on  the  day  of  the  per- 
formance, the  baritone,  who  could  not  be  at  theproz'a 
genera/e,  had  to  come  to  her  in  the  greenroom,  to  try 
over  their  duet.  She  had  hoped  so  much  for  a 
thorough  rehearsal.     This  was  a  vain  dream. 

Managers  care  little  how  many  voices  they  sacrifice, 
when  they  are  in  a  tight  corner.     At  the  beginning  of 


458  St  age-Struck, 

the  season  the  debutantes  are  all  tried.  If  they  are 
fortunate,  they  get  through;  if  they  are  not,  they  go 
under.  It  is  not  always  a  question  of  talent.  Old 
artists,  of  acknowledged  reputation,  insist  upon 
thorough  rehearsals;  but  such  demands  from  begin- 
ners would  be  ignored.  They  are  used  as  stop-gaps; 
they  have  to  appear  at  a  moment's  notice  and  with- 
out any  preparation.  The  wonder  is,  not  that  many 
fail,  but  that  any  succeed. 

Annabel's  opera  was  "  La  Traviata."  How  strange! 
That  work  of  all  others!  A  flood  of  recollections 
came  over  her.  How  well  she  remembered  her  first 
visit  to  Covent  Garden;  Patti's  spilling  the  cham- 
pagne; Brak — ah!  always  Brak — and  his  story  of 
"La  Dame  aux  Camelias"!  Perhaps  he  may  have 
seen  in  the  newspapers  that  his  wife  was  going  to  ap- 
pear. Would  he  be  angry — pleased — what  ?  She  felt 
that  she  would  have  such  a  success  this  time  that  he 
would  be  proud  of  her.  Then  how  happy  she  would 
be! 

She  reached  the  opera-house  at  half-past  seven. 
She  went  down  a  long  passage,  and  found  herself  un- 
der the  stage.     A  dresser  came  forward,  and  said, 

**  Here  is  your  room,  my  dear,  all  nice  and  warm. 
It's  the  prima  donna's  dressing-room,  and  the  best,  of 
course.  Can  I  help  you  with  your  cloak  ?  How  white 
you  are,  to  be  sure!  Can't  I  get  you  a  drop  o'  some- 
thing? You  are  in  good  time;  but  the  galleries  are 
already  full." 

Annabel  found  herself  in  a  square,  good-sized 
chamber,  with  two  windows  covered  with  dark  cur- 
tains.    It  was  furnished   in  red  rep.      There  were  a 


Stage-Struck,  459 

comfortable  sofa,  some  chairs,  and  Z-fauteuil:  also  a 
very  fresh,  dainty  toilet.  There  were  two  immense 
glasses  from  floor  to  ceiling,  lighted  on  either  side  by 
brilliant  gas-jets.  On  the  sofa  and  over  the  chairs 
were  her  dresses.  The  ball-dress  had  to  be  tried  on, 
as  it  had  but  just  arrived  from  Paris.  Mrs.  Almont 
handled  it  with  reverence. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  Patti  couldn't  have  a  lovelier,**  she 
said.  *'  Delannoy  has  outdone  herself:  all  white  and 
silver — you  will  be  quite  like  a  bride.  I  like  camel- 
lias, but  they  haven't  a  particle  of  odor.  However,  I 
suppose  you  must  wear  them." 

Annabel  shivered  as  she  said  to  herself,  "  A  bride  ? 
yes,  so  I  am;  but  where  is  my  husband  ?" 

She  was  so  unhappy,  she  would  have  thrown  it  all 
up  if  she  could.  To  think  that  she  had  not  heard 
from  him.  How  cruel!  and  she  could  not  even  cry 
now.     It  was  time  to  "  make  up." 

Mrs.  Almont  could  help  but  little;  so  she  went  to  sit 
in  the  wings.  Annabel  was  so  very  nervous  that  she 
couldn't  bear  her  in  the  room.  The  excitement  was 
general.  There  was  the  noise  of  the  orchestra  coming 
in,  people  were  talking  on  the  stage  and  under  it,  the 
call-boy  was  shouting,  and  the  manager  in  person 
came  every  few  moments  to  see  whether  she  wanted 
anything — everything  was  hurry  and  confusion. 

This  was  to  be  the  test  of  her  operatic  career.  She 
knew  her  opera  backwards;  everything  had  gone  well 
at  the  rehearsal,  and  even  the  orchestra  had  applauded 
her  grand  aria.  No;  failure  was  impossible,  if  only 
she  could  keep  calm  and  do  herself  and  her  old 
maestro  justice. 


460  Stage-Struck. 

Her  make-up  box  was  on  the  dressing-table.  In 
her  haste  she  had  forgotten  several  little  things, 
amongst  others  hair-pins,  a  very  essential  thing.  The 
coiffeur  had  not  yet  come;  so  Barnes,  the  good-natured 
dresser,  offered  to  run  and  get  them.  She  found  just 
the  kind  wanted  in  a  little  shop  in  a  street  adjacent 
to  the  theatre.  She  brought  in  several  packages, 
hastily  wrapped  in  pieces  of  old  newspapers,  and  laid 
them  at  hand.     She  was  not  back  a  moment  too  soon. 

Then  commenced  the  excitement  of  dressing.  The 
coiffeur  did  her  hair  and  got  it  all  wrong;  so  she  had  to 
do  it  over  again  herself.  Her  first  dresses  were  half- 
basted  on  her,  her  rouge  was  retouched,  her  jewels 
adjusted,  fan,  gloves,  everything  was  ready.  The 
call-boy  said,  "  Violetta  en  scenaj"  and  before  she  knew 
what  she  was  about  she  rushed  up  the  stairs,  with  the 
costumiers  and  the  dresser  holding  up  her  train  to 
keep  it  from  getting  dirty. 

She  stopped  for  her  cue  to  go  on,  when  she  heard 
a  voice;  a  man  perched  by  the  curtain-rope  said, 
"Well,  thank  Heaven  you  are  a  beauty,  or  this  night 
would  see  a  fiasco.**  She  was  half-amused,  half- 
shocked.  Then,  as  she  was  thinking,  ''  Oh,  that  is  the 
man  who  wanted  to  sing  Alfredo;  he  is  jealous,"  the 
stage-manager  seized  her  hand  —  "Quick!  quick! 
you've  missed  your  cue." 

She  ran  forward,  singing  the  notes  "  Flora  amicV* 
with  the  chef^  who  had  taken  them  up.  Then  there 
was  a  great  noise  in  front.  The  leader  of  the  orches- 
tra said, 

"Bow,  bow!  You  must  be  civil  to  the  public;  ac- 
knowledge your  reception." 


Stage-Struck.  461 

Then  she  heard  something  at  her  feet  rushing  along 
like  a  train  of  cars.  That  was  the  orchestra.  Soon 
she  was  at  a  table,  singing  and  laughing.  Her  hand 
shook  so  that  she  spilled  her  wine,  and  after  the 
brindisi  she  gave  a  camellia  to  Alfredo,  and  she  found 
herself  finally  alone  on  the  stage,  beginning  her  grand 
aria^  ^^  Ah  fors  e  lui.'* 

This  time  she  could  distinguish  the  tones  of  the 
orchestra.  Had  she  made  a  success  so  far  ?  She  did 
not  know.  Was — was  Brak  there  ?  Her  voice 
sounded  weak,  faint,  far  away.  That  was  emotion. 
She  wondered  if  he  were  there. 

Ah,  what  a  beautiful  house!  Then  she  took  cour- 
age and  sang  with  all  her  soul,  so  well  that  the  theatre 
rang  with  applause,  and  at  the  end  of  the  act  she 
went  twice  before  the  curtain.  There  were  some 
beautiful  flowers;  she  wondered  if  he  had  sent  them. 
But  there  was  no  time  for  thinking;  the  next  change 
had  to  be  made.  She  dressed  rapidly.  It  had  been  a 
grand  success  so  far.  The  first  part  of  the  second 
act  went  fairly  well. 

Germont  took  the  stage  when  she  wanted  it:  natu- 
rally old  artists  are  always  jealous.  She  interrupted 
one  of  his  endless  coronas,  and  he  said  a  very  terrible 
"  A  me''  to  her  as  she  went  towards  a  harmless  chair. 
The  duet  was  fair,  the  scene  with  Alfredo  quite  a 
triumph,  and  she  rushed  off  to  don  her  silver-flow- 
ered ball-dress.  She  got  ready  very  quickly,  and  had 
drawn  on  her  gloves  waiting  for  the  call-boy.  It  was 
the  first  moment  of  rest  she  had  had. 

Mrs.  Almont  was  enjoying  the  opera  from  the  wings 
immensely,  and  Annabel  sat  alone  in  her  room. 


462  Stage-Struck. 

She  was  at  her  dressing-table;  her  rouge  was  right, 
the  eyes  were  darkened  quite  enough,  when,  in  turn- 
ing, she  caught  sight  of  the  scrap  of  newspaper  which 
had  been  wrapped  around  the  hair-pins.  It  was  an 
old  copy  of  the  Morning  Post.  She  took  it  up 
mechanically,  but  started  as  she  read.  There  was  the 
column  for  births  and  marriages. 

On  the  first  line  she  saw — "  Married,  on  the  7th  of 
June,  at  St.  John's  Church,  Kensington,  by  the  Rev. 
W.  Keen,  Noel  Brakenston-Norman,  only  son  of  the 
Hon.  William  Brakenston,  of  Horneforth,  Oxon,  to 
Eulalie,  second  daughter  of  the  late  Captain  Ed- 
monds, Brighton.     No  cards." 

The  newspaper,  everything  swam  around  her.  Was 
she  dreaming  ?  had  she  gone  crazy  ?  What  was  this 
paper,  this  farce?  No,  no!  She  read  again.  Could 
it  be  true  ?  Too  true  !  And  she,  what  was  she  ?  Noel 
Brakenston,  Lallie  Edmonds:  his  name  and  hers; 
there  could  be  no  possibility  of  doubt.  Ah,  this  was 
the  secret! 

The  call-boy  rapped  at  the  door.  "  Violetta,  quick 
on  the  stage." 

"  Yes,  yes;  I  am  coming."  What  was  it  all  about  •* 
True,  she  had  forgotten  she  was  singing  at  Covent 
Garden.  This  was  the  night  of  her  great  triumph, 
and — and  she  could  not  tell  what  was  happening. 
One  thing — she  must  hide  the  paper,  were  it  true. 
No  one  should  know,  and  then —  She  hastily  pinned 
it  under  her  corsage. 

"  Violetta  !  Violetta !" 

"Yes,  yes;  I  am  coming." 

She  went  to  the  front;  admiring  glances  followed 


' 


Stage-Struck.  463 

her.  Her  eyes  blazed  fitfully,  and  the  deathly  pallor 
of  her  face  under  the  rouge  gave  it  a  ghastly  appear- 
ance. She  bit  her  lips  unconsciously,  and  in  her  ears 
she  heard  but  one  sound,  singing,  ringing  louder  than 
noise  of  chorus  or  orchestra — married,  married,  Noel 
Brakenston  to  Eulalie  Edmonds;  married,  married  ! 
And  she — what  was  she? 

How  she  sung  Xhcjinale  she  never  knew.  She  acted 
it  with  desperation  and  with  courage,  and  her  scream 
of  agony  when  Alfredo  threw  the  purse  at  her  feet 
seemed  to  pierce  the  air.  She  felt  like  dying;  had 
she  really  fainted  ? 

When  she  opened  her  eyes,  they  went  directly  to  a 
box  on  the  grand  tier.  She  saw  Brakenston  looking  at 
her  with  a  dark,  despairing  face.  He  was  standing, 
and  by  his  side  sat  Lallie,  his  wife.  She  drew  in  her 
breath  sharply,  shortly,  and  then  laughed  half  bitterly. 
So  it  was  true,  and — and  her  life's  dream  was  ended. 
Her  love,  and  such  love,  to  have  been  given  to  a 
traitor  !  She  must  not  think;  she  was  singing  badly. 
He  was  listening,  and  she  would  show  him  that — that 
it  was  nothing  strange  to  see  him  with  Eulalie.  They 
were  old  friends;  had  he  not  always  said  that  they 
were  old  friends  ? 

Then  the  grand  measures  of  the  finale  began.  She 
sang  for  everything  that  life  could  now  hold  dear,  and 
it  seemed  a  great  success.  The  curtain  fell.  She  left 
the  stage  without  a  glance  at  the  public,  and  hurried 
to  her  dressing-room.  There  was  no  call.  Had  she 
failed  ?  She  could  not  tell.  Her  despair  was  intense; 
the  terrible  words  that  she  had  read  were  burning 
into  her  heart — burning  like  fire;  yet  she  was  deter- 


464  Stage-Struck, 

mined  to  make  one  desperate  effort.  He  had  ruined 
her  happiness  as  a  woman;  he  should  not  ruin  her  suc- 
cess as  an  artist.  She  would  live  on — yes,  she  would 
live  on  for  her  art;  that  at  least  would  be  true  to  her, 
if  she  were  true  to  it.  Her  young  voice,  strong,  true, 
and  cultured  at  the  rehearsal,  on  this  night  had  been 
wavering,  weak,  and  stifled.  How  was  it  possible 
otherwise  ?  Of  all  humiliating  things,  to  fail  before 
him  and  Eulalie  !  She  would  give  ten  years  of  life  to 
succeed  and  triumph,  and  on  that  very  night. 

She  commenced  dressing  hastily.  Her  mother  came 
to  her  and  anxiously  asked  if  she  were  nervous  or  ill, 
or  what  was  the  matter.  She  replied  that  she  was 
rather  tired,  but  she  would  be  all  right  for  the  last  act. 

"  You  must  go  through  to  the  end,  darling;  and  if 
it  is  not  a  great  success  this  time,  it  will  be  the  next. 
I — we  cannot  understood  it.  The  rehearsals  were  so 
perfect;  you  made  a  triumph  of  the  first  part.  You 
don't  seem  nervous,  but — " 

"  Did  it  go  badly,  mamma  ?" 

"  Well,  not  badly;  but  you  were  not  yourself.  Your 
voice  could  hardly  be  heard  in  \\\q,  finale.  Do  try  and 
throw  it  out  more.  But  how  pale  you  are  looking,  my 
dear!" 

"Yes;  doesn't  she  just,  ma'am?"  interrupted  the 
dresser.  "  I  asked  her  now  if  she'd  have  a  drop  of 
something;  but  she  wouldn't.  I  wish  you  could  per- 
suade her  to." 

"  I  am  quite  well;  I  want  nothing.  You  know,  I 
must  look  pale,  for  I  have  to  die  in  this  act." 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  quick  knock.  Mrs. 
Almont  went  to  the  door. 


Stage-Struck,  465 

"  Yes,  what  is  it  ?"  to  the  call-boy.  "  Oh  !  well,  she 
will  be  ready.  Now,  darling,  courage;  sing  out,  and 
above  all  try  not  to  be  nervous.  You  look  better  than 
any  other  woman  on  the  stage  or  off.  It  is  something 
to  be  a  beauty.  Your  dress  is  all  right.  Fll  be  at  my 
place  in  the  wings.  Now,  do  sing  out  with  courage, 
and  it  will  be  a  beautiful  success.  Remember,  our 
whole  future  depends  on  the  next  half-hour." 

Her  mother  hurried  off.  Before  Annabel  could 
realize  how  it  came  about,  she  was  lying  on  a  bed, 
and  a  young  woman  sat  near  her.  There  was  a  night- 
light,  and  even  the  voices  were  hushed  about  her. 
Was  it  real  ?  Was  she  on  a  deathbed  ?  Oh  no  !  and 
yet,  oh  !  if  she  only  were,  and  if  all  could  finish,  how 
gladly  would  she  die  ! 

The  curtain  rolled  slowly  up.  Her  first  word, 
*^  Annina,'*  was  spoken  rather  than  sung.  She  felt 
Violetta's  woes,  because  they  were  her  own;  but,  alas  ! 
in  real  life  grief  is  genuine,  not  feigned,  and  she  could 
not  command  her  voice  to  sing.  The  scenes  were 
enacted  with  wondrous  charm  and  grace,  but  the 
singing  was  feeble,  faint.  She  was  beautiful,  and 
looked  as  if  she  might  indeed  be  on  a  bed  of  death,  but 
she  could  scarcely  utter  a  note.  She  heard  ringing  in 
her  ears  these  words  :  "  Married,  Noel  Brakenston  and 
Eulalie  Edmonds." 

When  she  found  herself  on  the  little  bed,  she  was  so 
tired  that  it  seemed  impossible  ever  to  get  up  again. 
In  vain  she  struggled.  She  was  stunned,  dazed, 
broken.  She  had  come  all  this  way  to  find  out  what 
she  was;  to  lie  there  playing  the  part  of  a  wretched 
dying  woman;  to  enact  this  rdle  under  the  very  gaze 


466  Stage-Struck, 

of  the  man  who  had  ruined  her  life.  It  was  too 
cruel,  too  hard  !  Had  the  blow  been  struck  at  any 
other  time,  away  from  the  world;  but  now,  when  all 
her  future  depended  on  this  debut !  It  was  too  hard, 
too  hard  ! 

The  opera  went  on.  Violetta  dragged  herself  to 
her  toilet.  She  sang  the  recitative  and  aria  *'  Addio 
del passato''  with  great  pathos;  but  in  vain  she  strug- 
gled to  unearth  her  voice  from  its  sorrowed  tomb. 
There  were  a  few  hisses,  and  these  struck  a  new  chill 
to  her  heart.  As  she  finished  the  aria^  she  burst  into 
tears,  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  Her 
gioja^  when  Alfredo  came  in,  was  a  sad  mockery  of 
joy,  and  in  her  duet  with  him  his  voice  alone  was 
heard.  Then  came  the  recitative,  and  Germont's 
entry.  All  that  she  had  to  do  was  to  give  the  re'- 
plique  to  Germont  and  Alfredo;  but  as  she  raised 
her  eyes,  she  caught  sight  again  of  Brak.  This  ut- 
terly overcame  her,  and  she  lost  herself  completely. 
She  forgot  her  cue;  she  forget  even  to  come  on  in 
time;  she  only  made  matters  worse.  Vainly  she 
tried  to  catch  up  a  measure  somewhere.  She  had 
totally  forgotten  even  the  music.  The  tenor  and  the 
baritone  muttered  deep  Italian  curses,  and  glared  at 
her.  She  heard  the  leader  of  the  orchestra  sing  a 
note  of  her  part.  He  gave  her  the  cue  again  and 
again,  but  it  was  of  no  use.  The  people  in  the  stalls 
were  murmuring  and  talking,  for  they  perceived  that 
something  was  going  wrong,  and  could  not  under- 
stand how  the  girl  who  had  created  so  favorable  an 
impression  in  the  first  act  should  make  so  hopeless  a 
fiasco  in  the  last.  It  was  a  relief  to  all  when  the  cur- 
tain fell. 


Stage-Struck.  467 

Annabel  smiled  bitterly,  and  hurried  her  prepara- 
tions for  getting  home.  As  they  reached  their  car- 
riage, her  mother  went  back  for  something  they  had 
forgotten.  A  man  came  to  her  and  thrust  a  note  .into 
her  hand.  It  was  from  him.  Her  first  thought  was 
to  throw  it  into  the  street;  but  she  had  no  time  to 
hesitate.  Her  mother  was  coming  towards  her,  and 
she  could  only  slip  it  into  her  pocket.  As  she  retired 
that  night,  her  mamma  kissed  her  with  more  than 
usual  tenderness.     She  said, 

"Annabel,  darling!  I  don't  want  to  worry  you  now, 
but — but  surely  something  has  gone  wrong  ?  You 
are  not  the  same  woman  that  you  were  two  days  ago. 
What  can  have  happened  ?  You  have  something  on 
your  mind — on  your  heart.  Won't  you  confide  in  me  ? 
Will  you  not  tell  your  mother  if  anything  has  dis- 
tressed you  ?"  She  kissed  her  again.  **  I  am  not  a 
demonstrative  woman,  but  my  heart  bled  for  you  to- 
night. You  were  not  doing  yourself  justice,  and  I 
felt  for  you.     Will  you  not  tell  me  what  it  was?" 

One  moment  she  reflected,  and  then  turned  to  her 
mother. 

"Dearest  mother,  I — I  have  only  you  in  all  the 
world.  Do  not  fret  over  my  failure.  It  was  to  be,  I 
suppose.  Even  Angel  says  success  is  bjiilt  upon 
failure.  Another  time  I  must  succeed.  Do  not 
worry  for  me.  I  must  bear  it.  I — I  did  not  do  my- 
self or  any  one  else  justice.  As  to  the  reason  why  " — 
she  drew  her  brows  closely  together — "I  have  nothing 
to  confide;  I  have  nothing  to  tell."  She  looked  stead- 
ily at  her  mother,  muttering,  "  I  don't  know  why  I 
failed." 


468  Stage-Struck, 

Her  mother  turned  away,  and  a  tear  glistened  in 
her  eye.  She  murmured,  "Good-night,  and  God  bless 
you!"     Then  she  went  to  her  room. 

When  Annabel  was  alone,  she  read  the  letter.  It 
was  written  on  a  piece  of  paper  evidently  torn  from  a 
note-book. 

"And  this  was  your  surprise.  Oh,  fatal  mistake! 
Had  you  but  told  me  that  you  were  coming  to  Lon- 
don! I  cannot  speak  of  your  singing;  we  will  talk  of 
that  some  other  time.  You  saw  me  with  Lallie.  She 
sends  her  regards  to  her  old  friend.  I  will  explain  all 
when  we  meet.  Do  not  be  angry.  I  love  only  you  in 
all  this  world.  Write  to  the  Garrick,  and  say  when  I 
can  come  to  you.     No  time  for  more. 

"  Your  own 

"  Brak." 

She  read  it  once,  twice,  three  times;  then  she  laid 
it  in  her  box  beside  the  notice  of  his  marriage. 

"So,"  she  said  to  herself,  "he  has  made  me  like  all 
other  women.  He  thinks  that  because  of  my  love  for 
him,  I  shall  be  like  all  other  women.  He  is  mistaken. 
I  will  never  forget  how  I  have  loved  him — how  I  still 
love  him;  but  he  has  betrayed  me  as" — she  bitterly 
smiled — "  as  I  suppose  men  are  in  the  habit  of  doing. 
Oh,  the  farce  of  that  most  farcical  ceremony — my 
wedding  in  Milan!  I  would  forgive  him  everything 
but  his  lying." 

Then  she  thought,  "  Has  he  lied  ?  Yes;  not  perhaps 
in  words,  but  with  the  still  baser  and  more  contempt- 
ible deception  of  silence.     He  has  accomplished  what 


Stage-Struck.  469 

he  evidently  came  to  Milan  for.  He  knew  that  I 
loved  him;  but  had  he  really  ever  had  one  grain  of 
true  affection  for  me,  he  never  would  have  ruined  and 
disgraced  me.  It  was  not  only  a  question  of  my  hap- 
piness, but  that  of  another  woman.  I  will  never  see 
him  again,  not  even  to  upbraid  him.  I  have  done 
Lallie  a  terrible  wrong,  but  innocently." 

Now  that  she  knew  that  he  was  married  to  her, — 
Lallie, — she  would  have  no  cause  to  complain.  She 
thought  on:  "  I  am  not  the  first  woman  who  has  loved 
and  been  betrayed.  They  had  to  bear  it  as  best  they 
could,  and  so,  too,  must  I." 

For  the  first  time  since  she  learned  the  truth,  her 
tears  fell  fast — hot,  blinding  tears,  which  scalded  her 
fingers  as  they  slowly  trickled  through  them.  She 
could  only  moan  and  repeat  to  herself  that  she  had 
fallen  into  the  snare;  that  her  dream  of  love  was  but 
a  reality  of  dishonor.  She  felt  crushed  and  stunned, 
and  she  could  not  even  think  of  the  future.  Her  very 
sobs  had  to  be  stifled,  so  that  her  mother  in  the  ad- 
joining room  should  not  hear  them.  She  went  to  her 
trunk,  and  almost  mechanically  took  out  his  letters 
and  the  photograph.  Slowly  she  began  reading  the 
letters,  for  she  was  determined  to  send  them  all  back. 
One  by  one  she  read  them  through,  and  gradually  the 
charm  of  their  subtle  words  worked  like  noxious  poi- 
son in  her  veins.  She  heard  only  his  vows  of  love; 
she  lived  only  in  the  maddening  past.  He  was  all 
her  own  again;  she  was  cradled  in  his  arms,  hushed 
to  the  slumber  of  love's  forgetfulness.  She  kissed 
the  paper  again  and  again.  The  words  burnt  her 
lips,  and  awoke  her  to  a  frenzy  of  such  passion  that 


470  Stage-Struck. 

her  head  turned;  cold  drops  of  crystallized  dew  stood 
out  on  her  forehead  and  dampened  her  hair.  She 
could  only  crush  the  paper  in  her  nerveless  hand  and 
say, 

"  Can  you  not  see  I  love  you  ?  I  am  all  yours.  O 
my  love,  come  back  to  me — come  back  to  me  !" 

Was  it  wrong  to  call  these  dreams  to  waking  hours  ? 
He  was  no  longer  hers;  yet,  with  all  women,  she  knew 
that  he  never  could  take  away  one  drop  from  the  cup 
of  past  happiness,  that  imperishable  legacy  of  even 
doomed  hopes.  She  tried  to  calm  herself,  and  began 
to  replace  the  letters  in  their  envelopes.  When  she 
came  to  the  last,  her  hand  faltered.  She  read  it 
through,  again  and  yet  again.  Was  it  possible  that 
he  had  only  known  her  to  betray  her  ?  Surely  a  man 
who  wrote  like  that  must  have  some  love  for  her. 
No;  it  was  weak,  it  was  foolish,  but  she  could  not 
part  with  everything.  She  would  keep  this  letter  and 
his  photograph,  and  send  back  the  others.  She  copied 
the  advertisement  on  a  slip  of  paper,  and  put  the  copy 
aside.  She  then  put  them  and  the  bit  of  newspaper 
into  a  parcel,  the  latter  uppermost,  and  sealed  it.  She 
intended  to  send  it  without  a  word.  What  had  she  to 
say  to  him  ?  She  muttered  to  herself,  "  I  could  almost 
forgive  him,  if  I  only  knew  that  for  one  single  mo- 
ment he  ever  really  loved  me." 

A  recollection  of  their  conversation  on  Othello 
came  to  her.  That  was  a  long  way  back.  He  had 
said  that  men  committed  crimes  for  women  they 
loved.  He  had  committed  a  crime  which  meant, 
according  to  this  meaning,  that  he  had  loved  her. 
What  crime  will  not  a  woman  excuse  in  man,  if  she 


Stage-Struck.  471 

can  only  believe  that  it  is  in  consequence  of  love  for 
her? 

Annabel  spent  the  long  hours  of  the  night  putting 
this  one  question  to  herself.  She  answered  it  in  a 
thousand  ways,  but  came  back  to  this  conclusion: 
that  a  double  betrayal,  such  as  hers,  was  evidence 
that  she  had  never  been  more  to  him  than  a  passing 
fancy.  Had  she  ever  been  more,  he  never  would  have 
so  deliberately  wrecked  her  young  life.  At  one  mo- 
ment she  wildly  kissed  his  photograph;  at  another  she 
threw  it  from  her.  Thus  the  night  wore  away  in 
alternate  bursts  of  blighted  affection  and  hopeless 
despair.  She  only  cried,  "Come  back!  come  back! 
what  matter  now  ?  I  forgive  all.  I  only  know  that  I 
love  you" — desperately,  despairingly — "  I  will  give 
up  all  for  one  more  hour  of  happiness  with  you." 
Then  she  wept  and  moaned  again;  and  at  last,  in  the 
depths  of  her  misery  and  forlornness,  sank  helplessly 
on  the  floor. 

How  long  she  had  lain  there  she  knew  not;  but  it 
was  not  until  dawn  had  broken  that  she  rose.  "  It  is 
day,"  she  said  sadly — "day;  I  must  now  take  up  my 
life  where  it  has  been  broken  off."  A  memory  of  her 
giving  way  to  such  abandonment  brought  a  tinge  of 
color  into  her  pallid  cheek.  She  continued,  "  I  may 
be  dishonored,  but  I  will  never  live  in  shame.  I 
swear  that  I  will  never  see  him  again.  I  pray  that  he 
may  be  happy.  I  forgive  him  his  sin,  as  I  hope  to  be 
forgiven  mine;  but  I  will  never  see  him  again.  Our 
paths  in  life  will  henceforth  be  far  apart.  I  will  try 
to  forget  him.  He  is  no  longer  my  Brak;  he  belongs 
to  another.     I  do  not  say  that  I  will  not  love  him,  bu^ 


4/2  Stage-Struck, 

I  will  try  not  to;  and  from  this  day  forth  I  will  put 
him  out  of  my  life  for  ever.  I  will  leave  London.  I 
will  begin  anew,  and  I  will  blot  these  last  two  years 
out  of  my  existence.  He  is  as  dead  to  me  as  if  he 
had  never  been.  I  may  love  him  unto  death,  but  I 
shall  never  see  him  again." 

She  looked  once  again  at  her  letters,  hesitated  but 
for  a  moment,  and  then  addressed  them  with  an  un- 
faltering hand  to  Noel  Brakenston.  "The  last  time 
I  shall  ever  write  that  name,"  she  said,  with  a  bitter 
smile.  Having  tied  the  parcel,  she  threw  herself 
upon  the  bed. 

Later  in  the  day  a  letter  came  from  the  manager. 
He  enclosed  a  month's  salary  with  his  regrets.  His 
words  were  kind  but  conclusive.  She  had  failed,  and 
there  was  no  place  for  her  at  Covent  Garden. 

She  managed  during  the  day  to  send  the  package 
secretly  to  the  club.  Then  with  precipitation  she 
packed  up  everything.  When  her  mother  returned, 
Annabel  said  to  her  with  feverish  eagerness,  "  Mother, 
darling,  I  cannot  stop  here.  If  you  love  me,  let  us 
leave  London.  I  am  ill,  unhappy — because  of — my 
failure.  The  continual  sight  of  this  city  would  kill 
me.  I  ought  not  to  take  it  so  to  heart;  but  here  I 
have  known  the  most  miserable  hours  of  my  life.  If 
I  am  to  live,  I  must  forget  them.  If  I  die,  let  me  die 
out  of  London.  I  have  only  you,  mother  dear,  in  all 
the  world  " — her  voice  faltering  painfully.  "  I  will  do 
anything,  work  anywhere;  only  take  me  away  from 
this  city,  and  I  will  bless  you  for  evermore." 

Her  mother  sighed — sighed  and  yielded. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

Four  months  later  Annabel  was  still  in  Paris. 
During  all  this  time  she  never  heard  from  Brak,  and 
had  never  written  a  line  to  him,  but  she  thought  of 
him  unceasingly.  It  was  not  so  easy  to  forget;  and,  to 
her  horror,  she  found  that  she  loved  him  with  the  old 
love.  He  had  betrayed  her,  ruined  her  whole  life,  and 
yet  she  still  loved  him.  She  had  been  ailing  all  the 
summer,  and  in  vain  did  her  mother  try  to  find  out 
what  was  the  matter.  Sometimes  she  would  look 
long  and  earnestly  at  her;  then  she  would  say, 

"Annabel,  you  are  surely  ill.  Have  you  no  idea 
what  ails  you  ?  Is  it  all  this  miserable  singing,  or 
have  you  anything  on  your  mind  ?  You  are  sure  you 
have  nothing  to  tell  me  ?" 

The  girl  always  gave  the  same  answer — "  I  am  not 
really  ill,  and  I  have  nothing  to  tell  you." 

If  her  mother  suspected  anything,  she  was  com- 
pletely disarmed  by  Annabel's  manner.  She  was 
fonder  than  ever,  and  seemed  to  anticipate  her  every 
wish.  They  were  very  poor;  the  manager's  money 
had  not  gone  far,  and  Annabel's  health  would  not 
permit  her  to  think  of  opera-singing.  She  was  not 
ill,  but  she  was  not  strong.  She  shrank  from  begin- 
ning the  old  life  of  going  to  agents  and  being  refused, 
as  she  had  been  even  lately;  for  always,  just  as  she 
was  about  to  sing,  remembrance  of  her  love  and  her 


474  Stage-Struck, 

blighted  life  would  come  to  her  and  would  choke  the 
very  sound  out  of  her  throat.  No;  she  would  wait  a 
little,  and  perhaps  with  time  she  would  live  this  feel- 
ing down.     She  must  wait. 

In  the  mean  while,  she  had  a  chance  to  sing  at  the 
American  chapel  in  Paris.  She  was  not  paid  much, 
but  it  was  bread  and  butter.  It  was  sufficient  to 
keep  them  from  starvation.  Her  father  was  ill  in  the 
small  town  near  Cognac.  He  could  not  understand 
Annabel's  going  off  to  London,  the  failure,  and  her 
seeming  bad  fortune.  He  attributed  everything  to 
luck,  good  or  bad,  and  he  was  continually  writing 
harrowing  letters,  railing  against  Fate  and  Providence 
in  general.  At  last  he  arrived  in  Paris,  and  the 
climax  of  misfortune  was  reached.  They  were  living 
in  a  sixth-story  apartment.  Annabel  could  ill  bear 
climbing  up  these  terrible  stairs  half  a  dozen  times 
a  day.  She  gave  lessons  in  singing,  and  her  mother 
gave  lessons  in  English. 

They  had  entirely  dropped  out  of  the  old  life. 
There  were  occasional  scraps  of  news  from  Milan, 
from  the  maestro,  once  from  Genevieve,  and  once 
from  Alice  Weiss.  A  number  of  the  students  had  got 
money  enough  to  get  to  London  or  New  York,  and 
they  were  singing,  not  in  grand  operas,  but  anywhere 
they  could  get  a  chance.  Yet  neither  the  mantle  of 
Jenny  Lind  nor  that  of  Mario  had  descended  on  any 
one  of  them. 

When  Annabel  thought  of  Brak,  she  only  said,  "  He 
is  another  woman's  husband.  I  have  put  him  out  of 
my  thoughts  for  ever.  I  have  taken  these  last  years 
out  of  my  life;  and  I  never  shall  bring  them  back. 


St  age-Struck.  475 

He  is  dead  to  me.  My  love  was  a  wretched,  beautiful 
dream,  but  only  a  dream.  I  must  live  for  the  future. 
I  must  begin  my  life  over  again;  but  oh  !  could  I  but 
see  him  once,  just  once,  I  never  would  ask  more  !" 

One  day  in  early  autumn  she  came  hastily  in  from 
a  rehearsal  at  the  church.  The  concierge  gave  her  a 
letter.  Her  breath  stopped  as  she  recognized  the 
hand  of — Brakenston.  He  had,  then,  dared  to  write 
to  her?  She  had  left  only  the  address,  "Milan,  Italy," 
at  the  stage-door  of  the  opera-house.  How  had  this 
letter  come  ?  In  truth,  it  had  been  travelling  about 
for  the  last  four  months.  From  London  to  Italy; 
then  to  South  America,  whither  it  was  rumored  she 
had  gone  with  a  company.  After  marvellously  erratic 
wanderings,  it  had  reached  her.  So  he  had  written. 
Then,  he  still  loved  her  ? 

•*  Oh,  "she  said,  "  to  read  once  more  that  he  loves 
me  !     Then  I  would  be  ready  to  die  !" 

She  breathlessly  gained  her  room.  She  was  alone, 
and  the  little  house  looked  uncommonly  cheerful.  A 
bright  fire  glowed  in  the  chimney,  and  on  the  table 
was  a  bunch  of  flowers  left  by  Mrs.  Wright,  the  kind 
wife  of  the  director  of  the  chapel-choir. 

She  looked  long  at  the  address  of  her  letter,  as  a 
woman  often  does,  before  she  opens  the  envelope. 
Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  gazed  on  the  well- 
known  handwriting;  then,  as  she  was  about  to  un- 
seal the  letter,  she  suddenly  paused.  She  had  sworn 
to  put  him  out  of  her  life,  to  begin  over  again;  was 
this  how  she  carried  out  her  intentions  ?  The  very 
strength  of  her  desire  nerved  her  to  the  effort.  If 
once  she  gave  way,  she  was  lost.     "  Never  !"  she  mut- 


4/6  Stage-Struck, 

tered  between  her  teeth.  "  I  have  been  Noel  Bra- 
kenston's  wife;  now  I  am  neither  his  wife  nor  his 
mistress."  She  went  to  the  chimney  and  dropped 
the  letter  into  the  fire.  The  flame  caught  it;  in  a 
moment  it  would  be  consumed.  As  the  paper  curled 
round,  she  thought  she  could  distinguish  the  word 
'Move."  Before  she  knew  what  she  was  doing, 
she  snatched  it  back,  but  too  late;  the  charred 
paper  eluded  her  grasp  and  crumbled  into 
black  ashes  in  her  hand.  She  felt  giddy  and  sick; 
the  room  was  reeling  around,  and  she  rubbed  the 
murky  dust  in  her  fingers  with  all  a  mad  woman's 
frenzy.  She  felt  herself  falling,  falling,  and  she 
knew  no  more. 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

A  VERY  long  spell  of  illness  followed.  For  weeks 
she  lay  at  death's  door.  She  was  carefully  tended, 
and  found  many  friends,  who  tried  to  lighten  every 
want.  Dr.  Johnson  and  his  wife,  as  was  their  wont 
towards  all  Americans,  had  been  ministering  angels 
to  her. 

When  she  could  get  about,  she  paid  her  first  visit 
to  the  doctor's  house.  She  did  not  mend  rapidly, 
and  seemed  still  very  weak.  After  the  usual  formula 
about  her  health,  he  asked  her  to  look  at  a  print  of 
Rossini  which  he  had  in  the  next  room.  She  got  up 
readily,  but  her  mother  did  not  follow.  When  they 
were  together,  he  said  kindly, 

"  I  have  asked  you  to  come  here  to  speak  with  you 
alone.  I  have  carefully  studied  you,  and  cannot 
find  any  physical  reason  for  your  illness.  I  have 
concluded  " — he  looked  at  her  with  sympathy — "  I 
have  concluded  that  you  have  something  on  your 
mind.  I  wish  to  help  you,  but  I  cannot  if  you  keep 
anything  from  me." 

She  turned  very  pale,  but  made  no  answer.  He 
went  on. 

"You  must  forgive  my  plain  speaking;  but  I  fear 
you  are  unhappy,  that  you  have  a  secret  sorrow,  and  " 
— he  turned  abruptly — "  do  you  yourself  know  the 
cause  of  your  illness  ?" 


47^  Stage-Strtick. 

She  started  unconsciously.  "  Do  I  know  the 
cause  ?"  she  murmured  faintly.  "  Why  should  you — 
should  any  one  think  that  there  is  a  special  reason? 
Oh  !" — she  caught  his  hand — "tell  me,  was  this  your 
idea,  or — or  my  mother's  ?" 

"  Frankly,  I  must  admit  that  it  was  mine.  Mrs. 
Almont  at  first  said  that  you  had  been  fretting  about 
your  music,  and  that  it  could  not  possibly  be  any- 
thing else  that  worried  you.  I  questioned  her  closely, 
but  elicited  nothing  further.  I  do  not  like  to  confess 
myself  baffled,  but  am  determined  to  put  it  plainly  to 
you.  Remember  that  if  there  is  any  other  reason, 
you  are  trifling  with  your  own  life  ;  you  are — " 

She  looked  at  him  strangely.  "  You  are  sure  that 
my  mother  said  no  more  ?"  she  interrupted,  weighing 
each  word  with  strange  precision. 

"Quite  sure  ;  but  is  there  anything?  I  have  come 
to  you." 

She  folded  her  hands,  and  still  looked  at  him.  "  You 
were  right  to  speak  directly  to  me;  but  there  is  nothing 
to  tell.  Mamma  was  right ;  I  have  been  fretting  much 
— over  my  singing."  She  looked  up  bitterly,  and  a 
half  mist  came  over  her  eyes,  but  her  voice  scarcely 
faltered.  "  You  know,  I  thought  that  I  should  some 
day  be  a  great  prima  donna,  and — and  I  have  failed. 
I  am  a — nobody." 

The  doctor  was  touched.  "  You  are  wrong  to  be 
despondent,  and  to  give  way  to  this  fretting.  All  the 
opera-singing  in  the  world  is  not  worth  a  pretty 
young  woman  eating  her  heart  out  for  it.  Try  and 
be  cheerful ;  besides,  you  are  yet  but  a  child.  Success 
is  built   on   failure,  and  you   should  have   a  bright 


Stage-Struck,  479 

future  before  you.  You  have  a  lifetime  in  which  to 
go  on  with  this  music.  I  will  do  all  I  can  for  you, 
but  I  will  not  have  you  go  on  undermining  your  con- 
stitution through  a  false  idea  that  because  you  are 
nothing  to-day  you  will  be  nothing  to-morrow.  Will 
you  try  and  be  courageous?" 

"  Yes,  I  will  ;  but  divest  your  mind  of  the  thought 
that — that  I  have  anything  else  than  my  music  to  fret 
over.     I  will  be  brave  and — " 

"And  remember  the  past  is  past.  You  will  do  bet- 
ter in  future." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  and  said  slowly,  "You  are 
right ;  the  past  is  past.  I  will  try  and  forget  it. 
Thanks,  a  thousand  times.  You  have  been  very  good 
to  me  ;  every  one  is  very  kind.  I  am  not  worthy  so 
much  trouble." 

"Tut!  nonsense,  my  child!  You  are  a  great  deal 
to  your  mother  and  father,  to  yourself,  and  to  all  of 
us.  We  must  not  let  our  little  Americans  come  over 
here  to  lose  health  and  strength  because  they  don't 
succeed  the  first  time.  Du  courage^  and  come  to  see 
me  whenever  you  like.  Remember  that  I  am  your 
friend,  not  alone  your  doctor." 

Annabel  thanked  him  by  a  soft  pressure  of  the  hand, 
for  she  could  not  trust  herself  to  speak.  They  rejoined 
her  mother,  who  at  that  moment  was  coming  towards 
them. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "have  you  told  Dr. 
Johnson  all  about  yourself  ?" 

"Yes,  mamma  ;  and  he  thinks  that  I  shall  get  on 
all  right." 

The    doctor   looked    curiously   at   her.      He    said 


480  Stage-Struck, 

nothing,  but  he  wondered  if  she  had  told  him  all  the 
truth. 

When  they  got  home,  they  found  her  father  waiting 
impatiently  for  them. 

"I  am  going  away,"  he  said  quickly.  "There  is  an- 
other little  chance  near  Cognac,  and  I  hope  to  get  an 
opportunity  there  to  show  them  my  new  patent.  I 
shall  not  be  paid  anything  at  first,  but  there  are 
millions  in  it  if  it  works  well.  What  did  the  doctor 
say,  Annabel?  That  you  will  pull  through  all  right, 
of  course;  only  we  are  so  miserably  poor.  I  cannot 
give  you  any  luxuries,  not  even  comforts." 

Annabel  went  to  take  up  her  music-book. 

"Stop,"  he  continued  authoritatively;  "at  least, 
don't  think  of  working  now.  You — you  look  tired, 
my  dear.  Your  old  father  doesn't  like  to  see  you  so 
pale.     Are — are  you  not  all  right  to-day  ?" 

"  Yes,  papa  dear  ;  I  am  well,  only  a  little  tired  with 
the  stairs.  But  we  are  near  the  angels,  you  know, 
and  I  never  look  from  my  window  but  I  think  if  it 
were  less  high  we  should  miss  the  lovely  view.  Paris 
seems  to  get  more  beautiful  each  day." 

"It  gets  dearer  each  day,"  grumbled  her  father, 
"and  winter  coming  on.  However,  I  guess  this  time 
I  shall  succeed  with  my  patent.  But  I  must  hurry  up; 
my  packing  isn't  done  yet,  and  the  train  starts  in  two 
hours." 

Annabel  and  her  mother  set  to  work  with  a  will. 
In  a  short  time  he  was  bidding  them  good-by.  He 
was  going  away  without  a  dollar  in  his  pocket,  leav- 
ing a  wife  and  sick  daughter  at  home  ;  yet  nothing 
could  dampen  his  spirits.    He  seemed  quite  as  sure  of 


Stage-Struck.  48 1 

this  last  new  scheme  as  if  his  pockets  already  groaned 
with  the  result  of  its  success. 

"  Henry  Almont  paralyzes  me,"  said  his  wife.  "  Of 
all  Americans  I  ever  knew,  I  think  he  is  the  pluckiest. 
I  fully  expect  to  see  him  walking  home  in  about  ten 
days  without  luggage,  even  his  shirt  collar  pawned, 
and  a  postage-stamp  his  sole  collateral,  and  that 
stamp  a  washed  one.  But  I  must  go  on  with  my 
writing.  I  am  glad  that  the  doctor  finds  you  are  not 
seriously  ill.  If  you  could  only  lay  up  a  bit  longer  ; 
but—" 

"  But  that  is  impossible,  mamma !  Mr.  Wright 
already  wonders  if  I  am  not  well  enough  to  take 
my  old  place  in  the  choir,  and  I  have  written  to  say 
Yes." 

"  But  your  lessons  !  Surely  you  will  not  begin  them 
at  once  ?" 

Annabel  sighed.  What  relief  had  she  in  anything 
but  hard  work  ?  Her  nights  were  one  long  agony  of 
restless  dreams,  sleeplessness'^and  vain  longing  to 
hear  the  sound  of  one  man's  voice.  She  knew  that 
he  was  dead  to  her,  yet  she  could  not  forget  him ; 
she  felt  that  she  loved  him  more  madly  than  ever. 
A  woman's  heart  is  a  strange  anomaly.  She  owed 
him  nothing  but  the  remembrance  of  a  few  hours' 
happiness  against  the  fatal  record  of  a  blighted  life. 

To  think  that  it  had  been  Lallie  all  the  time!  She 
wondered  if  he  loved  her;  if  he  had  ever  told  her 
that,  in — in  the  same  way. 

Wonder!  Was  it  a  matter  of  wonder  ?  Men  were 
all  alike;  she  had  been  the  idiot — the  fool.  He  had 
told  his  love  to  Lallie,  he  had  said  it  to  her,  he  had 


482  St  age-Struck. 

repeated  it  before  to  a  hundred  other  women,  and 
perhaps  at  this  very  moment  he  was  making  some 
other  soft-hearted  fool  believe  in  him. 

Her  voice,  too,  was  failing  her.  Could  she  but  put 
him  out  of  her  thoughts  long  enough  to  go  on  and 
make  one  great  success,  just  to  prove  that  she  was 
not  eating  her  heart  out  about  him,  then  she  would 
be  willing  to  die.  Then,  too,  to  show  the  world  that 
she  had  not  been  mistaken  in  herself.  She  longed  for 
strength  to  begin  anew  her  work;  she  struggled  with 
her  heart,  which,  though  crushed  and  bleeding,  re- 
fused to  yield  up  its  allegiance  to  this  man.  Love, 
she  knew,  was  not  for  her  ;  she  had  bidden  eternal 
farewell  to  it.  Yet  nothing  could  deprive  her  of  the 
memory  of  once  having  loved.  She  felt  at  times  the 
same  lingering  sweetness  in  her  life,  as  an  odor  will 
remain  in  the  air  after  the  flower  is  crushed.  She 
would  not  lose  all  courage;  she  was  in  the  world.  It 
was  ignoble  to  give  way  to  continual  retrospect;  and 
yet  she  went  on  day  by  day  in  the  same  old  tread- 
mill, thinking,  thinking,  thinking  of  Noel  Braken- 
ston,  the  man  whom  she  loved  more  than  all  the  earth 
beside. 

Her  life  was  filled  with  perpetual  disappointments 
and  with  unceasing  work.  She  gave  music-lessons 
and  sang  in  the  church,  which  occupied  her  time 
fully.  The  winter  came  on  with  terrible  rigor,  and 
they  had  little  with  which  to  ward  off  poverty. 
Annabel  studied  in  a  cold  room  until  her  very  marrow 
seemed  frozen  in  her  bones.  She  went  out  in  wet 
and  windy  weather,  thinly  clad  and  badly  shod.  She 
felt  her  strength  gradually  ebbing  away,  yet  never 


Stage-Struck.  483 

complained.  Why  should  she  ?  Was  she  the  only 
woman  in  the  world  who  had  known  sorrow — who 
had  eaten,  drunk,  and  slept  with  misfortune  ? 

Her  only  pleasure  now  was  in  trying  to  lighten  her 
mother's  life.  She  ministered  to  every  little  want  as 
best  she  could;  she  even  tried  to  help  her  in  her 
writing.  The  only  moment  of  satisfaction  she  ever 
really  knew  was  when  she  thought  how  well  she  had 
kept  her  secret;  that  no  one  in  the  world  knew  aught 
of  her  bitter  past.  It  was  impossible  to  forget  Brak. 
She  often  asked  herself,  "  What  manner  of  woman  am 
I,  that  I  can  still  go  on  caring  for  him?"  She  never 
got  beyond  this  question.  She  put  it  to  herself  a 
hundred  times  a  day;  and  a  hundred  times  her  heart 
answered,  "  Because  you  loved  him  truly,  and,  if  a 
true  woman,  you  cannot  easily  forget." 

Woman's  love  stands  a  great  deal  of  rough  hand- 
ling, wear  and  tear.  Annabel  was  but  one  of  many. 
She  had  not  learned  the  lesson  easily,  but  she  would 
never  forget  it.  She  was  happiest  when  listening  to 
music,  and  often  went  to  the  Church  of  St.  Sulpice, 
where  there  were  a  great  organ  and  the  famous  organ- 
ist Widor.  She  never  tired  of  the  solemn  masses  and 
the  beautiful  choral  service. 

Thtfete  of  Saint  Cecilia,  as  usual,  was  to  be  cele- 
brated in  all  the  churches.  Annabel  went  to  her 
favorite,  St.  Sulpice.  There  she  heard  a  great  singer, 
and  for  the  first  time  for  months  the  desire  came  over 
her,  as  when  she  was  a  girl,  to  do  something — to  be 
somebody  in  the  world. 

As  she  listened  to  the  grand  bursts  of  melody  which 
came  pouring  from  the  organ,  she   felt  her  very  soul 


484  Stage-Struck. 

stirred  to  its  depths.  In  a  moment  a  voice  soared  out 
like  the  sound  of  a  heavenly  harp  singing  Handel's 
hymn  to  St.  Cecilia.  She  thought  that  she  had  never 
before  heard  such  a  divine  soprano.  The  notes  rose 
clearer  and  higher,  until  the  entire  church  seemed 
filled  with  their  celestial  harmony.  Every  eye  in- 
voluntarily glanced  towards  the  organ-loft. 

Annabel  turned  to  her  neighbor,  an  old  man. 
"Who  is  singing?"  she  asked,  while  her  face  be- 
trayed as  much  eagerness  as  her  voice. 

"It  is  the  Baronne  de  Caters — Lablache's  youngest 
daughter  and  Malibran's  godchild,"  he  responded. 
"  There  are  many  great  artists  in  the  world,  but  none 
greater  than  she.'* 

Annabel  thanked  him  silently  by  a  bow.  "  Mali- 
bran's  godchild,"  she  thought;  "  Lablache's  daughter." 
These  names  brought  back  the  dream  of  her  youth. 
And  she  had  accepted  failure  because  she  had  fallen 
in  love! 

She  hurried  from  the  church.  The  organ  was  still 
pealing  forth  its  majestic  strains.  She  heard  one 
voice  above  all  the  noise  and  din  of  the  street — a 
voice  which  infused  new  life  into  her  veins.  "  I  will 
be  a  singer  or  die,"  she  muttered.  "  I  recommence 
anew  from  this  day  forth  to  devote  myself  to  my  art. 
Farewell  all  thoughts  of  Brak!  I  begin  my  life  over 
again." 

She  shivered  when  she  reached  the  foot  of  the 
church-steps.  A  biting  wind  swept  across  the  Place 
St.  Sulpice,  accompanied  by  a  tempest  of  rain  and 
sleet. 

She  had   to  wait   her  turn   to   get   a   place  in  an 


Stage-Struck.  485 

omnibus,  and  oy  the  time  her  number  was  reached 
she  was  thoroughly  drenched.  She  arrived  home  in 
a  pitiable  plight;  but  she  never  thought  of  her  wet 
garments.  She  only  heard  the  grand  tones  of  the 
organ  sweeping  through  the  church-aisles,  and  a 
glorious  voice  singing  the  hymn  to  St.  Cecilia.  All 
her  deadened  ambition  was  roused.  For  the  first 
time  for  months  she  cared  to  live,  and  to  become  a 
great  singer. 

During  the  evening  she  coughed  frequently.  Her 
mother  was  alarmed.     She  said  to  her, 

"  Annabel,  you  have  taken  cold.  When  I  saw  you 
go  out  to-day,  I  saw  influenza  stamped  on  your  fore- 
head. Sitting  two  hours  in  those  old  stone  buildings 
would  alone  be  enough  to  give  any  one  her  death. 
Besides  that,  you  were  caught  in  the  worst  storm  of 
the  year,  and  you  are  as  wet  as  a  rat.  Get  to  bed  at 
once.  I  will  make  something  hot  for  you,  and  then 
perhaps  you  won't  be  sick  to-morrow." 

She  obediently  followed  her  mother's  advice;  but  it 
was  too  late.  She  already  felt  the  symptoms  of  an 
attack  of  bronchitis,  and  took  to  her  bed. 

Dr.  Johnson  was  called  in,  and  succeeded  in  a  few 
days  in  getting  her  about.  He  spoke  seriously  to  Mrs. 
Almont. 

"  I  do  not  like  this  last  sudden  illness.  It  tells  me 
that  your  daughter  is  more  delicate  than  I  had  thought. 
She  is  not  in  any  danger,  and  will  be  perfectly  well 
with  time;  but  she  must  not  winter  in  Paris.  You 
must  go  to  Cannes  or  Nice.  Mind,  I  do  not  say  that 
she  cannot  stop  here;  I  merely  say  that  the  chances 
are  that  she  will  be  much  better  elsewhere.     She  had 


486  Stage-Struck. 

originally  a  superb  constitution,  but,  for  some  cause 
or  other,  it  seems  now  very  much  shattered.  This 
last  sickness  has  not  improved  her.  Does  she  fret 
as  much  as  usual  ? 

"  Oh  no.  I  think  she  is  much  happier.  Only  after 
the  celebration  at  the  St.  Sulpice,  she  came  home  de- 
lighted. She  told  me  about  the  music,  and  said  that 
she  was  once  again  her  old  self;  but  she  got  wet 
through  in  the  storm,  and — " 

"And  this  is  the  result.  No;  I  insist  upon  her 
going  away  at  once.  She  is  certainly  too  delicate  at 
present  to  think  of  stopping  in  Paris." 

Mrs.  Almont  demurred,  but  had  to  yield. 

Annabel  was  passive,  yet  secretly  thought  that  her 
going  away  was  nonsense.  She  was  filled  with  ideas 
of  her  singing,  and  of  commencing  the  spring  opera- 
season  in  a  new  role.  She  admitted,  however,  that  in 
order  to  be  quite  well  she  must  now  take  some  pre- 
cautions; and,  at  any  rate,  a  winter  in  the  south  of 
France  could  only  be  beneficial. 

The  question  of  how  to  get  there  was  happily  de- 
cided. The  Wrights  had  long  been  fond  of  Annabel, 
and  naturally  held  her  interests  at  heart.  When  they 
heard  that  she  ought  to  go  away,  they  immediately 
offered  to  help  her. 

She  had  been  singing  in  the  choir,  and  had  made 
herself  almost  indispensable  to  it.  Every  one  in  the 
congregation  loved  to  listen  to  her  voice,  and  Mr, 
Wright  scarcely  knew  how  to  do  without  his  protegee. 
But  she  ought  to  go,  and  he  was  too  unselfish  to 
think  of  his  own  interest  when  her  health  was  at 
stake. 


St  age-Struck.  487 

One  fine  day  they  found  themselves  ready.,  Annabel 
bid  the  kind  doctor  and  the  Wrights  an  affectionate 
farewell,  and  promised  to  come  back  with  the  early 
spring. 

She  seemed  quite  happy,  and  really  was  sorry  to 
leave  Paris.  The  last  words  were  to  Dr.  Johnson: 
*'You  are  a  tyrant;  but  next  year  I  shall  be  so  well 
that  I  will  defy  you." 

In  two  days  they  were  at  Nice,  in  tiny  rooms  look- 
ing out  upon  the  sea. 

The  morning  after  their  arrival,  a  letter  arrived 
from  Angel,  which  had  been  forwarded  from  Paris. 

Annabel  received  it  with  the  greatest  pleasure.  She 
was  fatigued  and  too  ill  after  her  journey  to  get  up; 
but  she  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  and  her  mother  sat 
beside  her  and  read  it  aloud  to  her. 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

"My  dear  Miss  Annabel: 

"  The  last  time  I  wrote  to  you,  I  was  in  Australia; 
now  you  will  see  by  the  above  that  I  am  in  New  York, 
back  again  under  the  old  Stars  and  Stripes,  and  for 
which  blessing  the  undersigned  is  truly  thankful. 
Don't  ask  me  anything  about  England's  colony.  I 
have  had  a  genteel  sufficiency  of  it — even  more;  too 
much  would  have   been  a  superfluity.     I  don't  even 

want  to  see  A a  on  the  map.     Will  you  believe  it  ? 

At  last  I  had  to  sing  not  only  baritone,  but  bass  parts. 
When  they  gave  me  the  deep  and  important  role  of 
that  dumb-doubly-dyed  villain  and  arch-assassin 
Sparafucile  in  '  Rigoletto,*  I  kicked.  The  idea  of  a 
man  with  a  phenomenal  voice  like  mine  being  made 
use  of  in  this  fashion!  Of  course,  my  amiability  has 
been  my  ruin.  In  consenting  to  sing  these  widely 
different  rdles  to  oblige  the  managers,  I  have  treated 
a  Heaven-given  talent  without  respect,  and  naturally 
I  am  dished.  No  one  can  say  that  I  haven't  given 
this  music  business  a  more  than  fair  trial.  I  com- 
menced my  career  a  deep  basso.  I  then  became  basso 
cantante,  baritone,  tenor  robusto,  light  tenor;  then, 
to  please  a  vile  manager,  once — only  once — I  con- 
sented to  sing  a  low-tenor  part.  That  did  me.  The 
bandit  Fra  Diavolo  caused  my  ultimate  ruin.  This 
r^/(?  immediately  lowered  my  voice.     A  baritone  fell 


Stage-Struck.  489 

ill,  and  I  sang  his  part  also,  to  please  the  manage- 
ment; then,  to  save  the  biggest  house  of  the  season,  I 
allowed  myself  to  be  bullied,  browbeaten,  wheedled 
into  filling  a  basso  role.  The  man  for  the  part  was 
'bronchity,'  and  I  understudied  him  just  to  keep  my 
hand  in,  when,  to  my  horror,  the  impresario  swooped 
down  on  me  like  a  wild  heron,  and  insisted  on  my 
singing  it.  I  did  as  the  noble  manager  desired,  and 
you  witness  the  result.  This  was  the  failure  which 
broke  the  singer's  bank.  I  worked  like  a  nigger  in 
Melbourne,  and  I  fairly  sung  and  fretted  the  flesh  off 
my  bones.  I  just  tapered  down  to  nothing,  when  the 
brute  of  a  director,  after  all  I  had  done  for  him,  asked 
me  if  I  didn't  think  a  breath  of  my  native  air  would 
do  me  good.  Ignoring  his  intended  insult,  I  said  I 
thought  it  would,  and  emphasized  my  remarks  with  a 
small  dose  of  black  and  tan.  He  had  the  opinion  of 
my  soul,  at  least.  Fancy  going  sixteen  thousand 
miles  only  to  quarrel  with  a  manager!  I  am  not  sure 
that  I  wouldn't  double  Cape  Horn  in  a  gale  for  the 
sake  of  kicking  him  again — 'giving  him  one  to  live 
on,'  as  the  boys  say.  The  whole  of  my  operatic 
career  was  summed  up  in  that  one  satisfaction.  Not 
worth  while  spending  three  years  of  my  life,  and 
learning  several  foreign  tongues,  including  English, 
you  will  say;  but  now  that  it  is  over,  I  depose  to  let 
the  career  R.I. P.,  and  the  undersigned  likewise. 
Well,  when  I  left  Australia,  I  interviewed  my  new 
hemstitch  with  a  tear  of  joy.  I  guess  that  prize  box 
of  handkerchiefs  got  well  seasoned.  And  here  I  am 
back  in  America,  after  all.  'My  own — my  native 
land.' 


490  Stage-Struck. 

"I  have  no  feeling  of  resentment  against  fate  for 
the  trick  she  has  played  an  honest,  conscientious, 
laborious  civil  engineer.  I  have  this  consolation,  that 
going  to  Europe  in  the  first  place  was  not  my  idea.  I 
did  it  to  please  my  friends,  and  now  I  hope  they  are 
satisfied.  I  always  thought  I  had  a  good  voice,  and 
I  prided  myself  on  my  expression  and  my  winning 
ways  quite  as  much  as  on  my  organ.  But,  of  course, 
with  them  setting  me  up,  and  telling  me  that  I  was 
wrong  to  keep  such  talent  hidden  from  the  world, 
I  very  rightly  determined  to  be  an  opera-singer.  But 
naturally  I  was  doomed.  I  had  no  luck  from  the 
first,  and  there  was  no  use  my  going  back  on  my 
mouth  because  it  wasn't  born  cherishing  a  golden 
spoon.  I  am  now  going  to  work  at  my  trade,  and 
must  confess  that  it  is  with  a  certain  sort  of  pleasure 
that  I  think  of  myself  as  a  civil  engineer. 

"  Most  of  the  '  embryos  '  are  back  in  New  York,  sing- 
ing in  comic  operas,  and  they  have  cheapened  even 
that  in  the  market.  Italian  names  still  stick  to  them. 
We  are  all  in  the  same  boat.  I  guess,  if  anything,  I 
can  crow  over  the  whole  crew.  They  are  still  at  it; 
but  *  I'm  no  pig,  Mrs.  Cobbs;  I  knew  when  I'd  got 
enough,'  so  I've  hung  up  my  lyre  for  ever.  By  the 
way,  don't  think  I  shall  stop  singing  for  myself  and 
my  friends.  They  always  stick  by  one,  some  way;  at 
least  to  say,  *  I  told  you  so;'  and  I  shall  take  a  morbid 
delight  in  singing  at  guilds,  strawberry-festivals,  on 
the  river  in  the  night-air,  at  sleighing-parties,  and  the 
whole  caboodle.  I  may  even  spring  a  charity  concert 
on  'em  when  no  one  is  looking;  but — but  no  more 
operatic  business. 


Stage-Struck,  491 

"  Well,  this  letter  is  long  enough,  and  I  guess  you'll 
be  pleased  to  strike  my  signature  about  an  inch  further 
on;  but  before  I  close,  I  want  to  say  that  I  wrote  this 
especially  to  send  you  my  congratulations.  I  hear 
your  d^but  was  a  gorgeous  affair,  and  that  you  are  en- 
gaged at  Covent  Garden.  Hip,  hip,  hooray  !  I  al- 
ways said  that  if  you  didn't  succeed,  the  whole  kit  had 
better  shut  up  shop;  and  I  guess  everybody's  of  my 
unbiassed  opinion.  How's  your  mother;  and  is  she 
with  you  ?  Give  her  my  love,  and  take  out  a  heap  for 
yourself.  Oh!  give  regards  to  any  of  the  other  floating 
operatic  straws  you  may  see  about  Paris,  not  forget- 
ting that  dear  couple  Enrico  and  Lucia.  They  are  the 
most  charming  people  in  this  world,  any  way,  ain't  they? 

"  Do  write  to  me  now  and  then,  and  tell  me  all  about 
yourself,  and  any  debut  ^ow  hear  of  may  not  be  unin- 
teresting to  know  about.  I  am  on  my  way  to  Mexico, 
and,  look  out!  I  may  send  you  a  horned  frog  for  a 
Christmas  present. 

"  By  the  way,  it  is  near  the  25th,  isn't  it  ?  Wish  you 
the  compliments  of  the  season  and  heaps  of  luck. 
Keep  a  stiff  upper  lip,  dear  Miss  Annabel,  and  you'll 
some  day  be  the  boss  singer  of  America. 

"  Always  your  old  friend, 

"Victor  Angel." 

Mrs.  Almont  folded  up  the  letter. 

Annabel  looked  half  smilingly  at  her  mother,  and 
said,  "  I  the  only  one  who  has  succeeded  !  This  doesn't 
look  much  like  it,  does  it,  mamma?  But  how  nice  of 
Angel  to  write  such  a  long  letter  !  I  am  sorry  he 
didn't  get  on  better." 


492  Stage-Struck. 

"Well,  he  seems  to  take  kindly  to  failure;  besides, 
he  has  his  trade  to  fall  back  on.  If  ever  I  had  another 
child,  I  would  give  him  a  trade;  any  would  be  a  surer 
livelihood  than  opera-singing." 

"You  might  have  begun  with  me,  mamma.  Per- 
haps it  isn't  too  late  yet.     What  can  I  do?" 

Her  mother  stared  gloomily  out  the  window. 

Annabel  sighed,  and  said,  "Come  here,  little 
woman."  Her  mother  came  to  her  bedside.  She 
kissed  her  fondly. 

"  Have  you  got  the  blues  ?" 

"Oh,  Annabel!  how  can  I  be  happy  or  nave  any 
more  courage  when  you  are  so  ill  ?"  She  burst  into 
tears. 

Annabel  leaned  forward  and  placed  her  thin  hand 
on  her  mother's  hair.  She  smoothed  the  soft  threads, 
and  drew  her  head  upon  the  pillow  near  to  her. 

"  Dear  mamma,"  she  continued  softly,  "  don't  take 
my  illness  to  heart;  it  is  nothing  serious.  I  will  be  all 
right  in  a  short  time.  Why,  with  such  weather  ?  the 
sun  is  pouring  in  at  the  window,  and  I  hear  the  sound 
of  voices  outside.  All  is  so  cheerful.  I  think  I  need  a 
little  sunshine  and  gayety;  besides,  I  don't  want  you 
to  have  the  blues — you'll  give  them  to  me,  and  I  am 
already  down  this  morning.  I — I  had  a  strange  dream 
last  night.  Angel  was  in  my  dream,  and  Genevieve. 
Wasn't  it  funny  ?     There  were  others,  too,  and — " 

"  It  was  curious  that  you  should  dream  of  him,  and 
this  letter  coming.  What  was  your  dream  ?  Bad  ? 
What  did  you  eat  last  night;  anything  heavy?  You 
must  be  careful.     Well,  let  us  hear  it." 

"  It  was  so  long,  I  must  have  been  at  it  all  night.    I 


Stage-Struck.  493 

oughtn't  to  tell  it  before  breakfast.  This  was  the  first 
night  in  a  strange  bed,  you  know,  and  they  say  that 
those  dreams  always  come  true;  but  that  is  nonsense. 
I  must  get  over  my  superstitions,  mustn't  I  ?  Mamma, 
come  close.     Are  you  comfortable?" 

"  Yes." 

She  drew  a  deep  breath.  Well,  this  is  it:  I  thought 
I  was  a  tiny  little  girl  back  in  La  Crosse.  You  remem- 
ber grandpa's  garden,  and  the  house  we  first  lived  in  ? 
Well,  I  was  there.  It  was  summer-time,  and  the  birds 
were  singing  in  the  old  apple  trees,  and  every  flower  was 
in  full  bloom.  Oh,  it  was  so  sweet!  The  first  thing  I 
recollect  was  that  I  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  gar- 
den— you  know  where,  mamma  :  near  the  black-currant 
bushes.  I  had  left  the  kitchen,  and  walked  straight 
down  the  path,  picking  flowers  as  I  went  along;  but 
the  whole  day  seemed  to  pass  before  I  reached  the  foot 
of  the  yard.  I  found  myself  standing  and  looking  up 
to  the  sky.  My  hands  still  held  a  few  blossoms,  but  I 
was  barefooted,  in  rags,  and  my  hair  was  streaming 
all  down  my  back.  And  as  I  stood  looking  upward, 
some  one  came  down  the  path,  preceded  by  a  great 
white  bird  or  swan.  This  bird  came  straight  to  me, 
and  cried  and  cried  and  fluttered  its  wings  with  a 
strange  sound.  I  was  going  to  chase  it  away,  when 
I  saw  that  our  servant,  the  one  we  had  in  Milan,  was 
the  woman  walking  in  the  path.  'Don't  kill  it  or 
chase  it  away,'  she  said;  'it  is  a  bird  of  my  country, 
and  whoever  harms  one  never  knows  happiness  again.' 
Then  she  went  away,  and  left  me  alone  with  the  cry- 
ing bird.  When  she  had  gone,  this  bird  came  close 
up  to  me,  but  I  wouldn't  look  at  it.     While  I  stood  in 


494  Stage-Struck. 

the  garden,  night  came  on  quickly,  as  things  come  in 
dreams.  The  bird  was  clutching  at  my  dress,  but  I 
was  looking  into  the  sky.  You  can't  imagine,  mamma, 
how  beautiful  it  was:  just  like  the  kaleidoscopes 
children  have,  only  everything  was  gold  and  silver 
running  all  around.  First  the  sky  was  filled  with 
burning  stars;  then  they  came  gradually  together,  and 
spread  themselves  out  just  like  a  silvery  veil —  long 
trailing  things  in  light;  then  they  would  shape  them- 
selves into  human  beings  and  different  objects,  and 
these  things  kept  going  and  coming  and  changing 
into  visions  and  forms,  each  one  more  beautiful  than 
the  other.  I  was  so  fascinated  that  the  night  wore 
away  while  I  looked,  until  the  whole  heavens  seemed 
overrun  with  light.  This  gradually  faded  away,  the 
stars  stealthily  disappeared  from  the  skies,  the  splen- 
dor of  the  heavens  faded  into  a  gray  mist;  then  came 
the  dawn.  I  turned  to  go.  I  was  a  child  no  longer; 
and,  just  think,  mamma!  while  I  had  been  looking,  I 
had  grown  old,  and  the  bird  was  still  at  my  side.  He 
touched  my  dress  and  said,  *  I  will  never  leave  you 
unless  you  give  me  up.     I  am — Brakenston.'" 

*'  Brakenston  ?  What!  the  young  man  we  saw  in 
London  ?  How  strange  that  we  have  never  heard  of 
him  since,  and  that,  of  all  the  world,  you  should 
dream  of  him!" 

This  was  the  first  time  since  she  had  met  him  in 
Milan  that  Annabel  had  mentioned  his  name  to  any 
one.  She  could  scarcely  command  her  voice,  yet  she 
continued,  watching  her  mother  narrowly. 

"Yes;  but  dreams  are  unaccountable.  Shall  I  go 
on  ?     Well,  I  walked  fast   through   the  garden  by  the 


Stagc-Struck,  495 

little  path.  When  I  reached  the  door  of  the  kitchen, 
I  saw  two  women  standing  there;  one  was  Lallie,  and 
the  other  her  mother.  They  beckoned  to  the  bird, 
but  he  would  not  leave  me.  They  insisted  so  that 
I  grew  angry,  and  said,  'Go,  if  you  like;'  but  he  only 
cried,  and  still  clung  all  the  more  closely." 

"Did  you  take  him?" 

"  No;  I  turned  away,  and  I  thought  I  heard  him  say, 
*  You  have  sacrificed  us  both.*  Then  they  cut  his 
wings,  and — Lallie  laughed  as  she  fastened  him  to  her 
side.  I  walked  away,  with  his  cries  ringing  in  my 
ears.  Then  I  came  to  a  great  hall,  where  hundreds  of 
men  and  women  were  drinking  and  carousing  at  tables 
spread  with  every  luxury.  There  were  flowers  pret- 
tier than  any  in  grandpapa's  garden,  and  fruit  so  ripe 
that  it  looked  quite  soft.  They  begged  me  to  stay, 
but  I  refused.  I  went  on  to  another  room,  also  filled 
with  men  and  women,  who  begged  me  not  to  run  off. 
I  saw  myself  in  a  looking-glass.  In  this  last  room  I 
seemed  to  have  grown  older,  and  my  face  was  pinched 
and  pale.  I  walked  forth  into  the  night,  but  all  the 
while,  as  before,  the  bird  was  still  calling  to  me  to  take 
him,  but — I  never  turned  back.  As  I  passed  the  last 
room,  I  came  to  a  white  sanded  road  running  through 
deep  water.  It  seemed  an  ocean  bridged  over;  and  I 
was  so  tired,  mamma,  you  can't  imagine  how  long  I 
had  been  going.  I  could  scarcely  drag  one  foot  after 
the  other,  and  this  road  was  endless.  I  was  quite 
alone,  and  had  to  watch  my  steps  for  fear  of  falling; 
and  I  stopped  now  and  then  to  look  as  if  to  escape 
myself,  but  I  could  only  keep  on  in  this  shining  path. 
At  last  I  came  to  an  enormous  park.     It  was  summer- 


49^  St  age-Struck. 

time,  and  the  birds  were  singing  in  the  trees;  the 
grass  was  green  and  young;  and  in  the  middle  of  a 
leafy  thicket  was  a  crystal  lake.  It  had  a  rustic 
bridge,  and  beautiful  flowering  vines  climbing  all 
over  it;  and  I  was  still  alone,  and  thankful  that  my 
journey  had  come  to  some  end.  I  leaned  against  the 
bridge,  and  I  saw  three  roads  coming  into  it  at  the 
edge  of  the  lake.  Then  think,  mamma,  how  curious 
it  was.  I  saw  a  man  standing  in  the  thicket  with  a 
cowl  over  his  face;  and  before  I  knew  what  it  all 
meant,  I  was  at  the  foot  of  the  bridge,  when  two 
women  came  towards  me.  They  were  in  deep  mourn- 
ing, in  trailing  garments  of  black  crepe;  and  as  we 
looked  into  one  another's  faces,  we  recognized  each 
other.  One  was — Lallie;  one  was  you,  mamma;  and 
I  was  the  other,  you  know.  We  separated  without 
speaking,  each  taking  one  of  the  three  roads.  The 
man  in  the  thicket  fell  on  his  face  when  I  passed  him; 
at  the  same  time  I  heard  the  bird  crying  to  me,  but  I 
walked  swiftly  on.  I — I  was  alone  in  the  world, 
mamma,  and — I — I  was  so  unhappy.  I  thought  I 
might  listen  to  the  bird,  and  I  remembered  that  bad 
luck  might  come  if  I  always  neglected  it.  I  didn't 
turn  back,  but  it — the  bird,  you  know — came  on  to 
me,  and — and — I —  Let  me  get  it  right,  mamma, 
this  was  so  strange;  but  it  must  be  right!  Oh  yes! 
I  was  suddenly  very  happy,  and  found  myself  back  in 
grandpa's  garden.  I  was  with  the  bird,  and  we  were 
just  like  children  together.  Night  came  on,  the  sky 
again  filled  with  stars,  and  the  pictures  in  white  light 
ran  all  around  the  heavens,  just  like  quicksilver.  I  was 
going  to  catch  some,  when  the  bird  laughed  and  flew 


Stage-Struck,  497 

away.  He  shook  his  wings  in  my  face,  as  much  as  to 
say,  '  I  have  but  to  will  to  fly,'  and  then  I  was  left 
alone.  I  stood  in  the  cold,  and  you  can't  think  how 
cold  it  seemed,  mamma.  Fancy:  I  was  a  barefooted 
little  girl  again,  and,  as  before,  in  rags.  I  cried  and 
cried  because  I  had  nothing  in  the  end;  even  my  pic- 
tures had  faded  out  of  the  sky,  and  the  bird  never 
came  back.  I  cried  so  hard  that  I  fell  on  the  ground 
to  die,  and  as  I  was  breathing  my  last  I  woke  up;  and, 
just  think!  I  was  still  crying.  Wasn't  it  funny  ?  I 
have  not  got  over  it  yet."  She  turned  her  face  to- 
wards the  wall. 

"  Funny!  Well,  I  don't  see  anything  very  comical 
about  it,  and  you're  all  of  a  tremble  now.  Why,  how 
on  earth  could  you  remember  it  all?  It  was  strange 
that  you  should  dream  of  the  Edmonds',  though,  and 
that  young  man.  Who  knows  what  has  become  of 
any  of  them  ?  This  world  is  a  queer  place.  Look  at 
Angel,  for  instance." 

Annabel  half  smiled.  "Yes;  he  is  now  a  civil 
engineer.  It's  a  very  good  thing  that  he  had  some- 
thing to  turn  to.  I  know  of  no  one  so  lucky  as  he. 
What  time  is  it,  mamma  ?     I  think  I  must  get  up." 

"  Get  up  ?  You're  to  stop  in  bed  and  not  think  of 
it.  What  a  pale  little  girl  it  is,  to  be  sure  !"  Her 
mother  kissed  her.  "After  dreaming  the  whole  of 
the  *  Arabian  Nights  '  through,  I  don't  wonder  you  are 
pale."  Annabel  was  too  weak  to  do  anything  but 
passively  obey  her  mother. 

Later,  the  next  day,  they  went  to  see  a  physician 
who  had  been  recommended  by  kind  Dr.  Johnson — not 
only  recommended,  but  had   been   written   to   from 


498  Stage-Struck, 

Paris,  so  that  Annabel  might  go  to  him  without 
thinking  of  fees. 

The  usual  formula  was  gone  through,  and  the  doc- 
tor told  her  not  to  go  out  again;  he  would  come  to 
her.  He  was  so  "non-committal"  that  Mrs.  Almont 
scarcely  knew  what  to  think.  Annabel  was  a  little 
disappointed  that  she  was  ordered  not  to  go  out. 

Nice,  with  its  sun-soft  sea-air  and  gay  promenades, 
was  a  tempting  sight  after  her  dull  life  in  Paris.  She 
had  counted  so  much  upon  being  a  great  deal  out  of 
doors.  But  there  was  no  help  for  it.  She  would  try  to 
be  patient. 

Her  mother  complained  that  they  were  to  be  de- 
barred from  all  sight  or  sound  of  this  gay  resort.  "  I 
wanted  to  go  to  Monte  Carlo,"  she  said.  "  Of  course 
gambling  is  detestable,  but  I  think  the  sight  of  so 
much  money  would  do  me  good,  although  it's  not  my 
own;  we  are  so  poor." 

Annabel  shuddered.  The  name  Monte  Carlo  had 
awakened  a  new  train  of  thought.  "  Englishmen 
went  there,"  she  thought;  "and  who  knew  but 
she  might  run  across  Brak  ?  Could  she  resist  him, 
were  she  to  see  him  ?  Oh  no;  she  still  loved  him,  as 
in  the  few  happy  days  at  Milan.  Perhaps  she  need 
not  fret  about  resisting  him;  he  might  not  even  speak 
to  her.  Oh,  if  she  could  but  see  him  once — once  again, 
even  if  he  did  not  speak!  It  would  do  her  good — more 
good  than  all  the  medicine  in  the  world.  But  she 
never  hoped  for  that;  at  least,  she  would  not  meet 
him  until  she  could  feel  that  seeing  him  could  affect 
her  no  more  than  the  sight  of  other  men.  Would 
that  day  ever  come?     She  must  pray  for  it.     God  had 


Stage- Struck.  499 

answered  her  prayers  when  she  was  a  little  girl; 
surely  He  would  hear  her  now." 

And  so  she  thought  on;  but  never  a  word  or  com- 
plaint escaped  her  lips.  She  could  not  leave  her  bed 
for  many  days,  and  the  doctor  came  frequently.  He 
always  left  a  long  prescription;  looked  wise  as  he 
took  out  his  watch;  and  went  away  with  a  cheerful 
boil  jour  h  demain^  to  return  the  next  day  and  go 
through  the  same  performance. 

•AH  their  money  seemed  to  go  for  drugs. 

Annabel  not  unfrequently  saw  him  alone  on  such 
occasions.  She  would  look  at  the  interminable  slips 
of  paper  with  the  spider-like  words,  and  then  ask  her- 
self if  they  were  really  necessary?  If  she  only  dared 
hide  them  or  tear  them  up,  it  would  be  such  a  relief. 
Her  mother  went  without  proper  food  just  to  buy 
medicines;  and  she  did  not  believe  in  drugs.  She 
knew  so  well  what  ailed  her;,  at  least,  she  thought 
that  her  illness  came  because  she  was  so  unhappy,  so 
depressed,  so  continually  down;  and  they  really 
could  not  afford  so  much  for  the  apothecary. 

The  fact  was,  her  case  baffled  the  good  doctor. 
Naturally,  he  wished  to  cure  her;  and  he  was  deter- 
mined to  exhaust  his  whole  repertory  of  infallible 
remedies,  rather  than  omit  one  which,  in  the  end, 
might  have  been  the  most  efficacious.  He  was  zeal- 
ous. If  zeal  could  cure,  Annabel  would  soon  be  able 
to  have  la  clef  des  champs^  and  join  the  people  on  the 
promenade. 

She  had  learned  to  study  in  bed,  and  was 
anxiously  preparing  herself  for  a  spring  season. 
Hour  after  hour  she  sat  bolstered  up,  with  scores  in 


500  Stage-Struck, 

her  hand.  She  sang  in  an  undertone,  and  beat  the 
measure  softly  on  the  counterpane.  She  had  become 
so  perfect  a  musician,  that  reading  over  her  operas 
was  almost  the  same  to  her  as  listening  to  their  per- 
formance. She  heard  all  the  instruments  of  the  or- 
chestra, and  the  intricate  threads  of  harmony  which 
were  so  skilfully  woven  in  and  out.  Then  she  heard 
the  soprano  come  in,  the  tenor,  the  basso,  and  the 
grand  finales.  She  even  consulted  with  her  mother 
about  certain  points  in  the  conception  of  a  role.  She 
did  this  with  as  much  earnestness  as  if  she  could  ac- 
cept an  engagement  to  sing  on  the  morrow. 

Her  mother  scolded  her  for  such  unceasing  work 
and  absorption;  but  the  doctor  only  told  her  not  to 
overdo  it,  and  she  really  seemed  much  happier  and  bet- 
ter when  she  could  practice.  Then  she  would  realize 
that  her  studying  was  nothing  but  an  excuse  to  live 
with  Brak.  She  saw  him  in  every  scene;  every  word 
of  love  was  spoken  by  her  faithless  idol;  every  heart- 
cry  came  from  her  own  bosom.  When  she  opened 
her  book,  she  thought  of  him;  when  she  closed  it,  she 
was  still  saying  his  name  over  to  herself,  always 
thinking,  "  Perhaps  he  will  come  back  to  me;  perhaps 
something  has  happened.  I  know  he  loved  me  once. 
I  would  forgive  him;  and,  if  he  were  free,  I  should 
take  him  back;  for,  after  all,  what  is  the  world  with- 
out love  ?  What  is  it,  or  anything  to  me,  without 
him  ?  Singing !  Unless  I  have  him,  I  shall  never 
sing  again.  When  I  buried  my  heart,  I  buried  my 
ambition.  I  now  realize  what  love  means.  I  shall 
take  no  more  medicines.  If  he  does  not  come  back,  I 
will  not  get  well.     I  do  not  want  to  live;  life  is  a 


St  age-Struck,  501 

burden.  I  cannot  forget  him;  I  cannot  bate  him. 
Oh,  Brak,  Brak  !  why  did  you  play  with  me  as  chil- 
dren do  with  their  toys  ?  why  did  you  break  my  heart 
and  ruin  all  my  life  just  to  give  yourself  one  hour  of 
pleasure  ?  I  hope  I  shall  die;  for  it  is  wicked  to  live 
and  love  another  woman's  husband.  I  love  you,  and 
you  are  married  to  Lallie." 

Then  she  would  draw  her  head  under  the  bed- 
clothes, as  a  poor  bird  does  under  its  wing  when  rain 
comes  on.  Her  mother  thought  she  was  tired  from 
her  studying,  and  never  disturbed  her. 

One  day  a  letter  came  from  Alice.  There  was  news 
of  the  maestro  and  of  all  Milan;  but  the  saddest  came 
with  the  happiest.  Federico  was  ill,  and  the  poor  old 
master  was  broken-hearted.  Annabel  finished  read- 
ing: 

"And  we  are  all  very  sorry  for  Federico  and  every- 
body. Now  I  must  tell  you  a  secret.  I  am  married 
and  am  going  to  Germany.  My  father  said  I  could 
not  sing  very  well,  so  I  had  nothing  else  to  do  but  to 
get  married.  My  husband  is  a  very  nice  young  man 
named  Schwarz;  and  that  is  curious,  ain't  it?  He 
Schwarz  and  I  Weiss." 

** Well,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Almont,  "their  children 
will  certainly  be  piebald." 

Annabel  continued: 

"  I  decided  all  at  once,  and  I  am  really  happy.  He 
is  a  brewer,  and  loves  me  to  death.  I  have  already  a 
diamond  ring  and  a  real  smoked-pearl  opera-glass, 
which  I  hope  some  day  to  look  through  and  see  you 
having  a  great  success  on  the  stage.  He  is  very  rich, 
and  I  am  going  to   live   in   a  Schloss  near  Berlin.     I 


502  Stage-Struck. 

guess  it  won't  be  much  like  Gretna  or  the  Via  St. 
Simone  in  Milan,  will  it?  You  must  come  and  see  me 
there  when  you  are  engaged  at  the  Imperial  Opera.  I 
think  we  shall  be  very  happy.  We  can  sing  Lieder 
all  day  long,  drink  beer,  and  eat  pretzels.  I  am  sure 
I  never  want  to  see  a  stick  of  macaroni  again;  only 
we  did  have  good  times  at  the  maestro's,  didn't  we? 
And  that's  about  all  of  Milan  I  ever  cared  about.  I 
won't  trouble  you  with  a  long  letter,  for  I  hear  you 
have  been  ill,  and  the  maestro  cries  all  the  time  about 
Federico  and  you,  because  he  can't  see  you,  too;  and  I 
guess  he  wishes  we  were  all  there  again,  singing,  all 
day  long,  like  so  many  robins,  doesn't  he?  Well,  I 
must  close,  and  I  hope  you  will  tell  me  of  your  suc- 
cess as  an  opera-singer;  but  if  I  were  you,  I  think  I'd 
get  married  besides,  because  it's  very  nice  having 
everything  you  want  and  some  one  to  take  care  of 
you. 

"  Kiss  your  mamma  for  me,  and  accept  the  same 
good  hug  for  yourself.  I  guess  I  never  wrote  so  much 
before;   but  I  am  very  happy. 

"  Your  old  friend, 

"Alice  Schwarz. 

"  P.S. — Direct  to  'Schloss  Schwarzenberg,  near  Ber- 
lin.' I  am  sure  to  get  it.  There  is  another  long  word, 
but  Franz  (my  husband)  says  it  is  useless.  Isabella 
has  come  back  to  Milan  an  engaged  artist,  and  her 
manager  sent  her  to  study  t\\Q  panda  method,  which 
she  soon  discovered  spoiled  her  voice,  and  she  refused 
to  study  with  Lamperti.  He  made  a  fuss,  and  some 
newspaper  took  the  affair  up.     He^  that  vile  old  Lam- 


Stage-StrtLck,  503 

perti,  wrote  her  a  letter  almost  threatening  to  ruin 
her  career  because  she  would  not  study  with  hifti,  and 
because  he  said  that  she  was  the  cause  of  this  letter  in 
the  newspaper  against  him.  Then  she  sent  word  back 
that  if  she  could  write  as  well  as  that,  she  would  never 
have  come  to  Italy  to  study  singing,  even  with  him. 
So  there  they  are,  still  fighting;  and  I  believe  Isabella 
will  give  up  her  scrittura  rather  than  study  with  such 
a  charlatan.  Federico  is  no  better;  he  sends  his  love, 
and  so  does  the  maestro,  who  is  very  unhappy 
about  him.  You  know  Federico  was  always  good- 
natured,  and  gave  me  the  full  note  before  I  started  off 
when  the  beginning  of  an  aria  was  difficult,  and  I  am 
real  sorry  that  he's  so  sick.  Well,  I  must  close,  or  you 
will  think  I  have  got  a  corner  on  letter-writing. 

"  Good-by    again  ;    and    write    soon    to   your   old 
friend, 

"Alice  Schwarz." 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 

Annabel  cried  bitterly  when  she  finished  Alice's 
letter;  and  nothing  would  do  but  she  must  write  to 
the  poor  old  maestro  at  once. 

From  that  time  forth  she  seemed  changed.  She 
often  spoke  of  Milan,  of  the  hours  they  had  spent  out- 
side the  Porta  Garibaldi,  and  of  her  own  ambition  to 
become  an  artist.  It  was  slightly  past  midwinter. 
Nice  was  at  its  gayest,  and  all  day  long  the  streets 
were  filled  with  crowds  of  pedestrians  and  fine  equi- 
pages. Carnival  processions  began,  and  night  was 
turned  into  day. 

Annabel  could  hear  the  noise  and  commotion  out- 
side. She  longed  to  be  able  to  get  up,  but  her 
strength  was  expended  only  in  longing.  Once  her 
father  had  sent  a  small  sum  of  money,  at  the  same 
time  announcing  that  at  length  something  was  going 
to  turn  up. 

Mrs.  Almont  almost  entirely  broke  down.  She  was 
nervous,  fretful,  and  despairing.  She  could  hardly 
scrape  together  enough  money  to  carry  on  and  to  pay 
for  the  medicines  which  were  ordered  for  Annabel, 
who  had  lost  all  desire  to  live.  Her  life  seemed  to  her 
one  grand  mistake.  She  made  no  complaint,  but  ac- 
cepted her  fate  without  repining.  Ill  in  body  and 
mind,  what  had  she  to  live  for  ?  And  yet  there  were 
moments  when   she  could   not  bear  the   thought   of 


Stage-Struck,  Joj 

leaving  the  world  without  one  last  sight  of  Braken- 
ston.  If  only  she  could  tell  him  that  she  had  loved  him 
to  the  last,  she  felt  she  could  die  in  peace.  But  it  was 
hard — terribly  hard — to  be  lying  on  her  deathbed 
ever  hopelessly,  helplessly  thinking  of  him,  and  yet 
unable  to  say  all  that  he  had  been  to  her — her  one, 
one  only  love  ! 

She  had  a  spell  of  unusual  illness,  and  the  day 
following  she  felt  better  than  she  had  been  for  a  long 
time;  but  towards  nightfall  she  became  flighty,  and 
her  mind  wandered.  She  lay  back  motionless,  almost 
lifeless,  on  her  pillow. 

Her  mother  had  been  with  her  the  whole  day;  but 
as  night  came  she  tried  to  get  a  little  rest.  When  she 
came  back  to  her,  she  found  her  sitting  up,  quite 
cheery,  and  on  her  bed  lay  the  score  of  "  Faust."  She 
spoke  to  her. 

"  Come  here,  dear  mamma,  and  sit  beside  me  on 
the  edge  of  the  bed,  just  as  you  used  to  do  when  I  was 
little." 

Her  mother  came  towards  her.  Annabel  noticed 
how  tired  and  worn  she  looked.  She  put  her  hands 
on  her  hair,  and  smoothed  it  tenderly,  without  speak- 
ing another  word.  Her  eyes  had  a  far-away  look  in 
them,  and  her  face  wore  a  strange  expression.  On 
seeing  her,  her  mother  burst  into  tears. 

Annabel  started,  saying,  ''Mamma,  dearest,  you  are 
crying — why  ?  Oh,  I  should  not  ask!  You  are  tired, 
ill.  We  are  so  poor.  You  deny  yourself  everything 
to  give  to  me,  and  I — I  am  basely  ungrateful.  I  don't 
seem  to  get  better  any  too  fast — do  I  ?  Any  one  would 
think  I  kept  ill  on  purpose." 


5o6  St  age-Struck. 

"Darling,  am  I  crying?  I — I  didn't  mean  to;  but 
you  look  so  thin,  dear,  and — and  I  don't  seem  worth 
much  as  a  nurse."  She  tried  to  command  her  feel- 
ings, but  leant  sobbing  on  the  pillow,  continuing,  with 
a  broken  voice,  "I  wouldn't  mind  poverty,  were  you 
only  well.  I  feel  so  sorry  for  you,  Annabel,  and  your 
disappointments.  This  life  isn't  much  of  a  one.  I 
often  wonder  what  we  have  done  that  we  should  be  so 
unfortunate." 

Annabel  became  suddenly  calm.  "  Dear  mamma, 
don't  worry  for  me.  This  sickness  don't  count.  I 
have  been  thinking  about  myself,  and  have  decided. 
I  will  begin  a  new  life,  even  from  to-day.  Why 
should  I  wait  until  I  am  well  ?  What  kind  of  Ameri- 
cans do  we  call  ourselves,  to  give  up  in  this  fashion 
because  we  are  poor  and  things  have  never  seemed  to 
go  right  ?  I  shall  now  only  live  for  the  future.  Have 
faith  in  me,  mamma.  Of  course,  I  am  still  a  little  ill, 
but  that  is  nothing." 

"  You  are  better  to-day,  dear,  after  such  a  bad 
night." 

While  her  mother  was  speaking,  Annabel  fell  back 
on  her  pillow,  and  murmured,  "  Yes  and  no,  mamma. 
I  only  have  a  queer  feeling,  as  if  I  should  be  wafted 
away  if  a  gust  of  wind  came  into  the  room.  I  hope 
you  won't  let  any  come.  I  have  been  a  little  de- 
pressed, but  I  am  ashamed  of  it.  People  have  been 
sick  before  to-day,  haven't  they  ?  So  I  had  better  be- 
gin making  up  my  mind  to  get  well,  if  ever  I  intend 
to.     To-morrow  I  shall  get  up,  and  sing  all  day." 

"  To-morrow!  Oh,  well,  we  shall  see  if  you  are  well 
enough." 


Stage-Struck.  507 

Annabel  continued  to  smooth  her  mother's  hair 
softly,  but  almost  unconsciously  her  hand  fell  on  the 
bed,  and  she  sank  back  on  her  pillow.  Her  mother, 
for  fear  of  disturbing  her,  did  not  move  from  her 
position.  She  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  mattress,  with 
her  hands  clasped  idly,  staring  in  front  of  her,  but 
evidently  seeing  nothing.  Some  little  time  passed. 
Then  she  got  up,  and  went  to  the  fire. 

Annabel  spoke  again,  this  time  as  if  to  herself, 
muttering  between  her  teeth,  anon,  in  a  clear  voice, 
"  My  life  has  been  a  mistake.  If  I  could  only  begin 
over  agairf!  I  remember  when  I  was  little."  She 
sighed.  "Ah, now  I  am  back  home;  there  is  the  same 
old  oak-tree,  and  there's  the  music-teacher,  pretending 
not  to  hear.  I  shall  have  to  sing  louder,  or  they  won't 
let  me  take  part  in  the  concert.  I  don't  remember  his 
face.  He  won't  stop,  the  mean  thing!  That's  because 
I  am  such  a  little  girl.  Now,  I  shall  get  to  the  river 
and  wade.  Oh,  how  beautiful  it  is!  I  shall  go  a  long 
way  out  this  time,  to  the  old  mill  near  the  other  bank, 
there  where  the  willows  are  hanging  into  the  stream. 
I  must  put  on  this  dress;  I  am  too  small  to  swim,  and 
the  water  is  cool.     Oh,  oh,  it  is  cold!     Oh!" 

Her  mother  looked  up.  "How her  mind  wanders!" 
she  muttered;  "  but  I  don't  know  whether  I  ought  to 
disturb  her  or  not.  Perhaps  she  will  drop  off  to 
sleep." 

Annabel  kept  on  talking  rapidly  and  thickly. 

"  Oh,  I  won't  see  the  bluffs  again  this  year.  I  shall 
find  the  first  spring  flowers.  Do  you  think  we  shall 
have  any  sleighing  like  this  in  Italy  ?  There,  now,  I've 
burned  my  fingers!     This  candy  is  too  hot.     Don't, 


5o8  Stage-Struck. 

Len;  you  pull  too  strong.  You'll  break  it.  Mine 
will  be  the  whitest" — earnestly.  "Oh,  I  sha'n't  forget 
this  is  my  home.  You  know  I  never  saw  kings  or 
queens,  but  they  can  never  take  the  place  my  old 
friends  have." 

At  this  moment  she  dozed  off,  and  her  mother  was 
about  to  speak  when  she  began  again.  This  time  the 
words  were  scarcely  audible. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  would  like  to  dip  my  hands  in  now. 
I  always  fished  up  some  weeds  besides;  and  I  will 
bring  my  apron  home  full  of  shells  and  white  pebbles. 
It  seems  a  long  while,  doesn't  it,  mamma  ?  And —  I 
and — "  her  voice  slightly  faltered — "I  am  tired.  I 
must  stop  and  rest.     Do  let  me  stop." 

Just  then  there  was  a  noise  in  the  street  of  the  pass- 
ing carnival.  A  number  of  merry-makers  were  going 
by,  singing  at  the  pitch  of  their  voices  and  playing 
upon  various  instruments.  There  was  a  sound  of 
bells. 

Annabel  listened  eagerly,  then  said,  "There!  they 
are  going  without  me.  I  must  be  ready.  Call  them 
in.  Don't  you  hear  the  sleigh-bells?  Oh,  I  know! 
Now  I  am  going  to  sing  and  have  my  purse.  Go; 
quick,  quick!" 

She  started  up,  and  eagerly  beckoned,  and  in  her 
eyes  blazed  a  wild  light.     Her  mother  sprang  forward. 

"  Annabel,  Annabel!  what  are  you  saying  ?  Are  you 
dreaming?" 

"  Stop  them!     Stop  them!" 

"  Stop  who?  What  are  you  thinking  of?  Do  you 
know  where  you  are  ?" 

"Yes,  yes;  at  home — the  Deacon's.'* 


Stage-Struck.  509 

"No,  dear.  This  is  Nice;  and  you  are  here  a  sick 
little  girl.     Try  to  think." 

She  struggled  to  remember.  Then  a  gleam  of  rea- 
son broke  over  her.  "  Nice — Nice  ?  Oh  yes;  I  do  recol- 
lect. And  we  are  alone;  you  and  I  are  here.  But 
where  is  papa  ?  I  want  to  see  him.  I  want  to  see 
every  one  I  love."  She  turned  towards  her  mother, 
and  continued  half-sobbingly,  "  Every  one  I  love. 
Yes,  I  want  to  see  him.  Oh,  it  is  too  hard,  too  hard! 
What  have  I  ever  done  that  I  should  be  so  punished  ? 
Come  back  to  me;  come  back!  It  wasn't  your  fault. 
Oh,  I  shall  never  see  him  again;  and  I  love  him  so!  I 
am  dying,  and  I  shall  never  see  him  again.  Oh!  if  I 
could  see  his  face,  but  once  hear  him  say,  'Annabel, 
you  are  all  I  have  in  the  world;  /  love — '  " 

Mrs.  Almont  was  astonished.  "Poor  child!  to  think 
she  loved  her  father  so  much  after  all."  She  smoothed 
her  pillow  and  went  to  the  window. 

The  wind  howled  with  awful  fury.  The  carnival 
was  still  at  its  height,  but  the  voices  of  the  revellers 
were  growing  faint  and  fainter.  She  went  again  to 
the  fire,  saying  half  to  herself, 

"It  is  a  wild  night,  and  I  think  we  shall  have  a 
storm  before  morning.  Were  I  in  America,  I  should 
certainly  predict  snow." 

Annabel  caught  the  last  words.  "  Snow  ?  Ah,  how 
I  should  like  to  see  some  !  It  would  be  like  old  times 
to  see  the  frost-flowers  on  the  window-pane;  and  then 
the  river  would  freeze,  and  there  would  be  sleighing. 
Ah!  I  remember  our  last  ride.  We  are  all  scattered 
now.  Who  knows  where  Len  is  ?  I  wonder  if  he  is 
singing?"      She  sighed.     "And  Miss   Hetty  and  all. 


5 10  Stage-Struck, 

the  others  ?  They  will  laugh  at  me  because  I  haven't 
succeeded;  but  they  will  laugh  too  soon.  I  haven't 
done  yet.  My  ambition  is  as  strong  as  ever."  She 
fell  back  on  her  pillow  and  sobbed  violently. 

Her  mother  soothed  her.     She  interrupted  again. 

"You  don't  hate  me,  mamma,  because  I  have  failed, 
do  you  ?  I  have  made  your  life  a  burden  to  you;  I 
have  dragged  you  everywhere,  and  you  haven't  had 
any  good  times  at  all.  I  feel  guilty  when  I  think  what 
a  burden  I  have  been.  With  all  my  fine  speeches  and 
my  will  to  do,  I — I  have  finished  just  like  everybody 
else  in  the  world.  Oh,  if  I  only  get  well!"  she  cried 
violently.  "Mamma,  mamma!"  she  cried,  throwing 
her  arms  around  her  neck,  "  I  haven't  been  a  good 
daughter  to  you.  I — I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you, 
but  I  will  make  it  up  to  you  some  day  in  the  future. 
I  shall  live  only  for  you;  we  shall  live  only  for  each 
other.  I  will  try,  but —  No,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  he" — 
She  seemed  utterly  unable  to  control  her  feelings. 

Her  mother  looked  at  her.  Then  a  thought  seem.ed 
to  strike  her.  She  remembered  Dr.  Johnson's  idea, 
that  she  had  something  on  her  mind.  Perhaps — 
Could  it  be  so  ? 

"Annabel,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  sharpened  with  ap- 
prehension, "  you  have  kept  something  from  me.  You 
have  something  to  tell  me.  I  know  you  are  ill,  but 
you  said — " 

She  started  up  confusedly,  murmuring,  "What  did 
I  say?  Tell?  No;  I  have  nothing  to  tell  you.  Oh, 
it  is  not  that,  mamma,  but — have  I  ever  been  unkind 
to  you,  or  treated  you  harshly,  or  seemed  wanting  in 
love  ?     Have  I  been  a  faithful,  dutiful  daughter  ?" 


Stage-Struck.  '  511 

**God  bless  you!  yes.  No  mother  ever  had  a  better 
child." 

She  drew  her  mother's  face  close  to  hers.  "Will 
you  say  it,  mamma?  Will  you  ask  Him  to  bless  me 
again  ?  Will  you  forgive  me  all  my  sins  ?  I — I  have 
been  found  wanting  so  often,  but  I  have  never  been 
unloving.  I  always  wished  to  do  right.  I  have  made 
your  lite  a  burden  to  you,  but  I  will  do  better  in  future. 
I  know  now  that  I  am  going  to  be  well,  and  I  will  try 
so  hard  to  succeed  and  to  make  you  happy.  I  cannot 
fail  in  the  end.  I  have  never  lost  my  courage.  Oh, 
mamma,  I  shall  get  well,  sha'n't  I  ?  And  I —  Do  you 
not  think  I  shall  be  a  great  singer  ?  Help  me  to  go 
back  to  the  time  when  I  was  a  little  girl,  and  said  my 
prayers  every  night  on  your  knee.  Ask  Him  to  bless 
me." 

She  clung  to  her  mother,  who  could  only  pat  her 
head  affectionately,  and  reiterate  that  He  would  bless 
her;  that  she  had  nothing  to  reproach  herself  with; 
and  that  she  must  try  now  and  sleep. 

Annabel  sank  back  half-helplessly  on  her  pillow, 
but  she  raised  herself  at  once.  "  Give  me  my  book. 
I  must  study.     I  must  look  at  this  scene  again." 

She  seized  "  Faust,"  which  was  close  at  hand,  and 
opened  it  at  the  last  act.  But  her  fingers  soon  closed 
on  the  page  and  her  head  drooped  to  one  side.  She 
shut  her  eyes,  without  attempting  to  sing,  and  re- 
mained for  some  time  quite  motionless.  She  suddenly 
opened  them  and  smiled. 

"How  strange!  There  is  the  mill  and  the  river 
rushing  like  a  white  bird  by  the  wheel;  the  sweetest 
flowers  grow  on  the  prairie  near  the  bluff,  and  I  shall 


5 1 2  Stage-Struck, 

come  home  with  my  hands  full  of  wild  violets.  I  hear 
birds  singing,  and  school  is  just  out.  They  don't  seem 
to  know  me.  The  boys  and  girls,  they're  going  home 
together,  with  their.satchels  full  of  books,  and  they 
don't  see  me."  She  raised  herself  up  excitedly.  **  Call 
them  back!  Don't  let  them  leave  me  alone.  It  is 
getting  dark." 

Her  mother  watched  her  anxiously.     She  raved  on. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  see  the  old  home  again  1 
It's  so  funny.  I  keep  thinking  of  it.  I  don't  really 
want  to  go  back;  only  I  would  like  to  say  to  myself 
that  I  could  go  just  as  well  as  not,  if  I  liked.  We  are 
a  long  way  off,  are  we  not,  mamma  ?  Europe  is  a  nice 
place;  but  as  soon  as  I  am  well  I  will  go  to  America 
and  sing.  There's  no  place  like  home,  after  all.  I 
hate  to  go  back  now,  for  they  will  laugh  at  me  if  I  do 
not  get  a  thousand  dollars  a  night.  I  am  not  a  made 
artist;  but  I'll  do  whatever  you  think  best.  Oh,  how 
cold  it  is!  What  a  night!"  She  shivered.  '*  I  am  so 
cold;  I  am  so  cold!"     She  seemed  quite  rational. 

Her  mother  spoke  softly,  wondering  how  much  she 
understood.  "  Cold,  dear  ?  The  room  is  so  warm; 
still,  I'll  poke  up  the  fire."  Her  mother  went  to  the 
chimney. 

Annabel  turned  and  tossed.  Her  hands  were 
clasped  together,  picking  at  the  sheet.  She  cried  with 
cold,  and  all  her  fiightiness  seemed  to  have  re- 
turned. Her  mother  was  too  frightened  to  think  of 
anything. 

She  had  been  this  way  several  times,  and  the 
draughts  given  by  the  doctor  often  made  her  cry  out 
in   the   night;    but   this   evening   she   seemed   much 


Stage-Struck.  51 3 

worse.  The  physician  had  assured  Mrs.  Almont  that 
there  was  no  danger;  her  daughter  only  needed  a 
great  deal  of  sleep.  Some  little  time  passed.  The 
storm  was  fiercer,  and  the  wind  howled  like  the  spirits 
of  the  lost. 

Annabel  seemed  to  sleep  for  a  moment,  then  she 
opened  her  eyes  and  called  out,  "  Mamma,  mamma  ! 
Where  am  I  ?  It  is  so  cold!"  She  still  shivered. 
''How  the  wind  rages!  and  it's  raining  now.  I  hear 
hail  against  the  window.  Won't  you  cover  me  up  ?  I 
am  so  shivery  !" 

Her  mother  brought  her  a  cloak,  and  said,  with  an 
attempt  at  a  smile,  "  Think  that  it  is  Jenny  Lind's 
mantle  that  you  have  always  raved  about.  It  will 
keep  you  warmer."     She  covered  her  tenderly. 

"  Ah,  mamma !  I  don't  think  even  that  could  warm 
me  now.  I  do  feel  so  cold.  You  must  tuck  me  in  as 
you  did  when  I  was  a  little  girl,  then  I  shall  say  my 
prayer,  'Now  I  lay  me,'  and  go  to  sleep  right  off. 
Kiss  me,  mamma,  and  wish  me  good-night." 

The  storm  grew  in  violence,  and  a  gust  of  wind 
flapped  open  the  shutter. 

"  I  hope  no  one  we  know  is  out,"  she  continued, 
suddenly  rousing  up.  "  And  papa;  and — ah  ! — I  wish 
he  were  here!  What  a  frightful  sound  that  blind 
made  !"  Her  eyes  looked  wild  again.  "  He  is  in  my 
mind;  I  cannot  forget  him.  I  hope  he  is  happy;  but 
shall  I  ever  be  happy  again  ?  Kiss  me  once  more, 
mamma.  I  feel  so  strange  that  I  think  I  shall  drop 
right  off.  Good-night;  good-night.  We  have  been 
separated  so  long.  If  I  only  knew  that  he  loved  me,  I 
could  sleep  in  peace,    Good-night,  mamma;  good  n — " 


5*4  Stage-Struck, 

She  stopped  with  a  muttered  sound,  so  low  that 
the  word  died  in  her  throat;  her  arms  unloosed 
themselves  from  her  mother's  neck,  and  she  sank  back 
like  a  tired  child  on  her  pillow. 

Mrs.  Almont  tucked  her  in  carefully,  saying,  "  Now 
she  will  sleep,"  lowered  the  light,  and  went  softly  out 
of  the  room. 

She  had  no  thought  of  resting  herself.  She  shut 
her  door,  stirred  up  the  fire,  and  sat  down  before  it, 
with  her  hands  clasped,  and  her  pale  face  looking 
paler  .by  its  flickering  light. 

She  drew  up  her  table,  and  took  up  some  sheets  of 
manuscript.  She  must  work  now,  while  Annabel  was 
sleeping.  To  be  sure,  she  was  tired  and  heart-sick, 
but  what  matter  ?  Her  poor  writing  was  almost  their 
daily  bread,  and  now  more  than  ever  she  must  keep 
on  with  it. 

Her  room  opened  out  into  a  corridor,  which  went 
from  that  into  the  street.  She  had  been  sitting  some 
time,  when  she  thought  she  heard  some  one  at  the 
outer  door.  She  listened,  but  the  sound  ceasing  she 
went  on  with  her  work.  Again  she  heard  it — this  time 
a  distinct  knock  twice  repeated.  What  could  it  mean  ? 
Who  could  it  be  at  this  hour  of  the  night  ?  Could  it 
be  her  husband  ? 

"  It  must  be,"  she  muttered.  "  Who  else  but  Henry 
Almont  would  turn  up  at  such  an  hour,  on  such  a 
night  as  this?  Well,  I  must  let  him  in;  but  I  hope  he 
will  not  wake  Annabel.  It  is  a  nice  house  to  come 
back  to,  and  she  so  sick." 

She  went  noiselessly  to  the  door  and  opened  it.  A 
man  entered,  and  hastily  closed  it  after  him.    He  was 


St  age-Struck.  515 

dripping  with  wet,  and  his  coat  hung  like  a  pall  about 
him,  Mrs.  Almont  started  back.  She  saw  it  was  not 
her  husband,  and  was  about  to  scream  for  help.  The 
stranger  turned  and  put  out  an  entreating  hand.  The 
light  fell  full  on  his  face. 

"  Do  not  call,"  he  said  softly.     "  Mrs.  Almont,  don't 
you  remember  me  ?    I  am  Brak — Noel  Brakenston." 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

Mrs.  Almont  was  paralyzed  with  astonishment. 
"You  here  !"  she  gasped.  "At  this  hour?  What  can 
it  mean  ?  Hush  !"  as  he  was  about  to  answer,  "An- 
nabel— you  remember  Annabel  ? — well,  she  is  very 
ill.  Do  not  make  a  noise,  she  is  sleeping;  we  must 
not  disturb  her.  Will  you  come  in  ?  This  way,  into 
my  room.  Ah!  softly.  Well  " — when  he  was  quite 
near  the  chimney — "  now,  what  is  it  ?  Where  on 
earth  do  you  come  from  ?    Why  are  you  here  ?" 

He  started  forward  and  seized  her  hands.  "  Oh, 
Mrs.  Almont,  can't  you  imagine  why  ?  It's  because  of 
her — of  Annabel.  Let  me  go  to  her  at  once.  Has  she 
never  told  you  ?" 

"Go  to  her?  Impossible!  Told  me!  Told  me  what? 
I  do  not  understand." 

He  dropped  her  hand  and  started  towards  the  inner 
door.     But  she  seized  his  arm. 

"  Speak  1     What  is  it  ?     Told  me—" 

"That — that  I  am  her  husband?  I  adore  her.  I 
married  and — and  yet  I  abandoned  her."  He  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands. 

Mrs.  Almont  could  not  believe  her  senses.  She 
passed  her  hand  over  her  forehead  and  across  her 
eyes.  Then  she  said,  "  You  married  Annabel  ?  Are 
you  mad,  or  am  I  dreaming?" 

She  sank  back  helpless  in  her  chair  and  stared  at 


Stage-Struck.  517 

him  with  utter  amazement.  He  leaned  against  the 
mantelpiece,  and  black  drops  dripped  from  his  oven 
coat  on  to  the  stone  hearth.  He  noticed  them,  and, 
without  speaking,  threw  off  the  garment  into  a  chair. 
He  then  said  slowly ; 

"  I  am  not  mad,  and  you  are  not  dreaming.  It  is 
God's  truth;  and  I  have  come  to  you  to  make  full  con- 
fession, and  beg  you  to  intercede  for  me  with  her.  Oh, 
Mrs.  Almont,  as  you  are  a  mother,  for  the  sake  of  your 
child  I  beg  you  to  do  this!  Don't  think  me  unmanly, 
and  don't  be  too  hard  on  me.  I  never  loved  but  her." 
He  knelt  before  her,  and  went  on.  "  I  never  intended 
to  wrong  her.     When  I  went  to  Milan — " 

Mrs.  Almont  started.  "  Get  up,"  she  said  sternly, 
"and  explain,  if  you  can.  Milan!  What  about  it? 
When  were  you  there  ?  and — and — " 

He  got  up  dejectedly  and  took  his  old  place  at 
the  chimney.  "  You  are  right.  I  will  try  and  tell  you. 
When  I  saw  her  in  London,  I  fell  in  love  with  her.  I 
was  half-engaged  to  Lallie,  but  I  never  intended  to 
marry  her.  I  saw  Annabel  alone  one  day,  and — and 
told  her  that  I  loved  her,  and  asked  her  to  be  my  wife. 
She  refused  me,  and  even  left  London  without  a  word. 
You  were  ill,  then.     You  remember  the  time  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes.     Go  on;  go  on." 

"  I  was  heart-broken  at  her  refusal,  and  for  a  year 
lay  at  death's  door  with  brain-fever.  In  the  mean  time 
I  never  had  a  word  from  her.  I  believed  that  she 
would  never  be  anything  to  me.  Chance  threw  Lallie 
in  my  path,  and — and  she  became  a  wife  to  me  in 
everything  but  name.  A  month  after  my  uncle  recog- 
nized and  adopted  me;  but  having  heard  of  Lallie,  he 


5 1 8  Stage-Struck. 

insisted  on  my  marrying  her.  It  was  the  old  story  of 
habit  and  love.  I  did  not  care  for  her,  but  I  was  so 
used  to  seeing  her  about  that  I  deceived  myself  into 
thinking  that  I  really  had  a  stronger  feeling.  Even 
whilst  the  marriage-ceremony  was  proceeding  I 
thought  of  Annabel,  and  realized  when  too  late  that 
she  was  the  only  woman  in  the  world  to  me;  and,  after, 
I  began  to  understand  that  I  could  not  live  if  I  did  not 
see  her.  The  wish  so  absorbed  me  that  I  started  for 
Italy  in  search  of  her.  I  hardly  knew  what  I  wanted, 
only  I  know  I  intended  her  no  ill." 

He  then  hurriedly  told  Mrs.  Almont  all  that  had 
occurred  at  Milan,  and  his  hasty  departure  on  account 
of  Lallie's  grave  illness.  How  he  went  by  chance  to 
Annabel's  debut^  and  of  her  having  seen  them  at  Covent 
Garden;  the  way  she  heard  of  their  marriage;  how  his 
first  letters  had  been  returned  without  a  word,  and 
the  others  never  even  answered.  He  continued, 
"Everything  is  over  now,  Mrs.  Almont.  My  uncle 
loved  Lallie;  but,  poor  girl!  she  died  about  two  months 
ago,  and  before  her  death  I  told  her  all.  She  had  half 
suspected  it  from  the  first,  and  on  her  deathbed  she 
told  me  to  come  and  beg  Annabel  to  forgive  and  re- 
ceive me  back.  Lallie  did  more,  Mrs.  Almont.  She 
named  our  little  girl  Annabel,  and  I  hope  that  for 
its  own  sake,  and  that  of  its  dead  mother,  she  will 
pardon  me,  and  let  my  love,  honor,  and  name  atone 
for  the  bitter  past.  That  is  all.  I  have  spent  weeks 
trying  to  find  you,  and  I  only  to-day  arrived  in  Nice. 
I  have  come  to  lay  my  heart  at  her  feet;  to  bring  her 
fortune,  name,  and  rank.  The  wrong  seems — nay, 
was  so  great,     I  committed  a  crime  for  her  sake.     I 


Stage-Struck,  5 1 9 

always  loved  her,  and,  as  God  is  my  judge,  I  shall  kill 
myself  if  she  will  not  forgive  me.  At  first  I  did  not 
dare  to  come;  but  I  found  out  which  was  her  window, 
and  I  have  been  walking  back  and  forth  before  it  for 
hours  in  all  this  storm,  looking  at  the  light  in  her  room 
and  the  wall  which  shut  her  from  my  sight;  looking, 
and  loving,  and  longing  until  I  could  stand  it  no  longer. 
So  at  this  hour  of  the  night  I  come  to  her." 

He  started  again  towards  the  inner  door.  Mrs.  Al- 
mont  held  him  back. 

"  Let  me  go  to  her.  I  swear  I  will  be  calm.  Don't 
be  too  hard  on  me,  Mrs.  Almont;  I,  too,  have  suffered. 
Do  you  think  it  is  nothing  to  have  loved  her  this  long 
time  madly,  devotedly,  and  yet  to  have  been  so 
hemmed  in  by  circumstances  that  she  must  have 
thought  me  still  more  of  a  villain  than  I  was;  to  have 
passed  for  a  wretch  in  her  sight,  whilst  I  was  longing 
to  see  her  more  than  any  one  else  in  all  the  world  ? 
My  poor  darling!  my  adored  one!  Mrs.  Almont,  you 
don't  speak.  Don't  push  me  too  far.  I  am  a  despe- 
rate man.  I  have  come  for  my  wife,  and  I  say  I  will 
have  her."  His  voice  grew  louder  and  more  impas- 
sioned^ "  She  loves  me.  Oh," — as  Mrs.  Almont 
looked  up, — "don't  say  that  she  has  changed!  She 
still  loves  me.  For  God's  sake,  don't  keep  me  waiting 
any  longer!  I  will  go!"  He  turned  desperately  to- 
wards the  door. 

Mrs.  Almont  started  forward.  "Madman!  can  you 
realize  what  you  are  doing  ?  It  might  kill  her!  Let 
me  think.  Oh,  let  me  think!  Your  wife!  Say,  rather, 
the  woman  you  abandoned!  Poor  darling!  Poor  An- 
nabel!    How  could  you  be  so  cruel  ?" 


520  Stage-Struck. 

He  made  no  answer,  but  remained  with  his  head 
buried  in  his  hands. 

Mrs.  Almont  reflected.  What  had  she  heard  ?  This,; 
then,  was  the  secret;  and  Annabel  had  loved  him  all 
along.  What  was  she,  to  judge  this  man  ?  He  had 
suffered  perhaps  as  much  as  her  child,  and  now  it 
would  all  be  made  right.  Perhaps  this  meant  health 
to  her,  and  happiness  to  all  of  them.  Her  first  feelings 
of  blind  indignation  and  resentment  faded  away. 

At  last  she  withdrew  her  hands  from  her  face  and 
made  a  movement  as  if  to  rise.  "  Come,"  she  said 
coldly;  "  follow  me." 

He  turned,  and  dropped  his  head  on  her  shoulder 
with  a  gesture  of  humbleness  and  grief.  "  Not  until 
you  have  forgiven  me,"  he  said.  "  On  my  bended 
knees,  I  ask  your  pardon  and  hers.  Mrs.  Almont,  I 
once  knew  a  mother's  care.  She  was  as  kind  as  you 
are,  and  loving;  she  is  dead  and  gone  now.  Will  you 
forgive  me  for  her  sake  ?  Will  you  take  her  place  ?  I 
swear  to  be  a  true  son  to  you,  and  a  loving  husband  to 
Annabel.  If  I  ever  fail  towards  her,  may  God  fail  to- 
wards me!" 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment;  then  a  tear  stood  in  her 
eye.  She  kissed  him  sadly  on  the  forehead.  "  We  have 
all  suffered,"  she  said.  "  Come,  I  hope  better  days  are 
in  store.  Softly;  she  is  very  ill.  Shall  I  go  first?  No. 
You  will  come;  but  promise  not  to  make  any  outcry. 
You  will  find  her  changed."  She  opened  the  door 
softly,  continuing,  "  I  left  her  dozing  off;  perhaps  she 
has  fallen  asleep.  Will  you  come  in  now  ?"  She  held 
the  door  ajar. 

He  entered  with  bated  breath.  At  last,  after  all  these 


Stage-Struck,  521 

months,  he  was  to  see  her.     Softly  he  approached  the 
bed.     Mrs.  Almont  was  by  his  side. 

"Yes,"  he  whispered,  "she  is  sleeping." 
She  lay  before  them,  still  and  motionless.  Her 
golden-glinted  hair  streamed  over  her  pillow.  On  her 
soft  cheeks  there  was  a  faint  color,  like  the  breaking 
morn.  Her  eyes  were  half-closed,  and  her  parted  lips 
were  wreathed  in  a  smile.  One  hand  lay  on  the  cover- 
let, and  the  other  tightly  grasped  a  photograph  in  its 
clenched  fingers. 
Yes,  she  was  sleeping — the  sleep  of  death. 


THE  END. 


^■' , 


'A 


UNIVEESITY  OF  CALIFOENIA  LIBEAEY, 
BEEKELEY 


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